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Social Commentary III: Well, what have we here

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Social Commentary III: well, what have we here

So I am across town at my sister’s place. I decided to get a haircut. Went to a small mall (if you can call it that) at the market around Ogba.
While still walking along the estate, I came across a family alighting from a small car (early 2000s or mid like my own). Two young girls – about 5 and 3 – and the mum’s pregnancy is advanced. And I thought to myself in this current situation of the country and the world at large, contrary to any believes they may hold, they can’t “afford” 3 kids. I know some people are thinking I should mind my own business. But the world is now a small village and there are very few things that are truly private business (i.e., things that whatever you do has no implication to my own business – for example, in general, committing suicide probably has no effect on my well-being).
One child is OK. Two is insurance. Three, three is too much these days unless you are a billionaire.
And if you need reasons to stick to two or less, let me tell you that your retirement plan will thank you; those two kids will thank you; your neighbors will thank you; those pesky extended family members that think you should’t stop until you have half a football team screaming around your 3-bedroom apartment will thank you when they see you have a little extra to send their way; and of course I (yours truly) thank you already.
And if you think I should mind my business; let’s take it to the extreme shall we? Say the husband dies (yes, God forbid bad thing! But if you think it’s not that common, think again. There are lots of widows with small children. So, as i was saying, the husband dies, and the wife is left with 2 children of school age and a third on the way. It is very possible the bulk of the household income was earned by the dead husband. So relations rally around for a while but soon tire of the situation and drift away – they have their own issues to deal with. A year or two down the line, the wife is on her own. The children are shunted into some sub-standard school. The family moves to some unsuitable area to live because of the rent. Fast forward 15 years and those little children are grown – the young girls are both pregnant – and the smallest who turned out to be a boy is now a terror in the neighborhood.
Let’s say I am living a few streets away in a more affluent neighborhood. Come one night I get unexpected visitors shoving guns and cutlasses in my face and demanding all I have or my life: the boy is one of them.
Now, let’s pursue an alternative story which diverges before the breadwinner goes off to heaven. They stop on two kids. The husband dies. The woman is under a lot of stress. But some family member decides to help out and takes the older kid to live with him/her. Puts the girl in a good school. The wife is under less pressure in many ways. She can afford to put the remaining kid in a reasonably good school. The older girl comes home regularly to visit. Both children grow up to be responsible members of the society.
I get to sleep with both eyes closed.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I get to the barber’s and see the small shop has been divided into two. He seems to have acquired an assistant or trainee barber. Both are busy and there are a couple of guys waiting. The trainee finishes first but neither of the two guys seated makes a move. I indicated to one that the other barber is free but he says he will wait for the main barber. I held on a little. I decided to take my chances with the trainee barber. After all, how is he going to get better if no one allows him to gain experience by cutting their hair.

He is very gentle. I can almost not feel the clippers (they are new and when my regular barber used it on my head a week or so previously, I had a noticeable welt across my forehead where he had been “shaping” my hair.)
The only problem was that he held the clippers as if it was a chisel. He could have done a lot of damage if he hadn’t had such a gentle touch. I started to think/hope to myself that it was reasonable that the main barber will look in on what his apprentice is doing before he finishes right? And just I was starting to think maybe I should actually ask the main barber to look in, the apprentice steps into the other cubicle and had a short discussion with the main barber who then assigns him to shave the guy in the other cubicle while he finishes off my haircut. Thankee!
So I ask the barber what I can do about the bumps on my cheek. He says I should get some cream called Neo-Medrol. Great.
But there are two types (here we go). One is 850 Naira and the other is 650 Naira.
“What is the difference?”
The 850 one is made abroad. The 650 is made here in Nigeria.
I cross the road to some cosmetic shop and ask if they have the cream.
Yes. 1,200.
Isn’t it 850.
No.
There was an inscription on the guys’s t-shirt but I couldn’t read it properly so I ask him to let me see it.
He smiled and wasn’t sure at first, but when I smiled and insisted, he uncrossed his arms.
“Communism killed a 100million people and all I got was this lousy t-shirt”
There was a picture of Che Guevara under the inscription.

I didn’t buy the cream. I went home.

Epilogue: Bought the cream for N1,250  a week or so later at MedPlus. Don’t know if it is any more genuine than the other guys, but MedPlus is big chemist chain, so I guess I can take some solace in that 🙂

09-March-2012

My Oga At The Top (The Matrix Remix)

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Ok. Let me start that by stating that this is in no way meant to ridicule Mr.  Shem. It is just another “fun” remix of this “thing” that has gone viral. In fact, I think he could have taken it in his stride (if not for the sheer number of posts and memes on the issue). As someone commented, how many people of his age even know anything about the Internet (not a completely valid comment in this day and age). I guess he got carried away and rather than just admit he couldn’t remember or didn’t know, he tried to bluff his way out of the situation. I think he can be pardoned for that. We should be ridiculing the more serious offenders stealing our public funds. But as someone suggested, while the Oga’s at the top are busy trying to “work” immunity clauses into the Nigerian constitution to protect themselves from being prosecuted for their crimes against the Nigerian masses and the Nigerian state, can they ask for more than that Nigerians be distracted with some other almost non-issue such as this?

One question: how many of the people “shaming” Mr. Shem have actually taken steps to find out the full website address of the NSCDC? Answer quick before you go looking on google 🙂

My Oga At The Top (The Matrix Remix)

Below is a script for the short clip. I am too lazy to watch the movies (trilogy) and fish out the required sequences. And then do the “mash up” and upload it to YouTube.
Truth be told, I could do it, but it would take a lot of effort and time which my boss won’t appreciate (I have several official tasks pending), so I am putting up the script for anyone out there that is interested. I am sure there are others with much more advanced multimedia skills that can easily and quickly do it.

The clip starts with the dialogue between Agent Smith and Neo. Remember the sequence where Agent Smith is ready to beat up Neo. He removes his glasses and puts them carefully in his breast pocket while talking.
(Voice Over)
Agent Smith (while putting away the glasses): “Mr Anderson, what is the website of NSCDC?”
Neo (posing as usual): “I am sorry I can’t tell you that, you have to ask my Oga at the top.”

Video cuts to Morpheus (that iconic picture of him sitting as if he is on a throne with the dark eye glasses).

Video cuts back to Neo/Smith.

Smith: I hope you are ready to take a bullet for your Oga at the top.

Video cuts to the rooftop where Smith fires at Neo and Neo does the slo-mo leaning-back thingie while dodging all the bullets except the last one that grazes his leg.

(You can go crazy here while repeating a very short part of the sequence – Smith firing repeatedly and Neo leaning back – video basically jerks repeatedly in step to the popular “what is the website of NSCDC” that’s repeated on many of the videos out there on the topic)

Frames from the actual interview here.

Ends with Neo’s rapid hand beating of Agent Smith (while Neo appears to be looking elsewhere).  You can repeat a short sequence here as well to the beat of the song (what’s the website …).

Be creative and mix it up so it fits the sound. Plagiarize a few of those clips already on the web for the music – like all those catchy repeats of “my oga, my oga, eh, my oga at the top, eh, my oga, …” or “what is the website of NSCDC, what is the website of NSCDC, …”

From London to Berlin

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LONDON TO BERLIN

Not this time though. The title comes from the hook of one of my favorite songs (“From London to Berlin” by Infernal).
“From Paris to Berlin, and every disco I get in, my heart is pumping for love  … you left me longing for you.”

In the last week, I have been “West-Coast” trotting. From Lagos to Accra Ghana. Stayed at the Golden Tulip Hotel. If you ever find yourself in the hotel, make sure you order the grouper fillet at least once (it’s served with chips). One second in your mouth and then it’s gone. It is that good. You almost don’t need to chew it since it is very soft and smooth. The meeting I went for in Accra was relatively OK. Went in to nip some brewing trouble with a client in the bud. Promised to find a solution to their problem by leveraging my organization’s technical resources.

Then it was on to Dakar, Senegal via Freetown.

So I took a flight on ASKY from Ghana to Freetown  A relatively small plane sitting about 100 people. I was seated quite close to the back. The lunch was a surprise for such a small plane and a small airline I think. They even had a choice of drinks on offer.

After the meal we settle down for the flight. And that was when the trouble started.

The smell came in waves. I started thinking someone in the “house” was responsible. The big guy in front of me was a close suspect. It appeared he was still eating well after the lunch was over which made me more suspicious. Maybe he was letting it rip secretly – silent killer.

As I said earlier the smell came in waves. And one could almost choke on it. I kept looking at the back of the head of the big guy. After some particularly bad “waft”, he picked up some newspapers and started fanning the air with a motion that looks as if he was trying to drive away the bad air. It was at this point it hit me that he may not be responsible, or he may even be thinking the same about me. So I picked up the on-board magazine and copied his actions. So he knows we are on the same side.

At some point I realized it was coming from the toilet at the back. The hostess seated right at the back got up and adjust the toilet’s doors, but that didn’t really help. At some point I got up and looked up the aisle to see if there was any row with empty seats, but there was at least one person on every couple of seats (2 seats per side of the aisle) and I guess even though they may not exactly say no, I can understand that they had settled happily into the believe that they can stretch on this journey having got an extra seat for their economy ticket. So I sat back down, I wasn’t about to rain on anyone’s parade.

But I kept an eye on the hostess. I was hoping she would bolt and then I wouldn’t give a damn about moving forward yet. But like the true “sea captain” that she was,  she stuck it out. So instead I checked the time and tried to estimate how longer the flight would be before we got to our destination.

After a particularly bad “one”, the hostess got up, rummage in some overhead bins, then went all the way to the front of the plane, found a can of air freshener and returned to the back of the plane. She sprayed it judiciously and sat back down. I was in heaven for a few minutes. Then the smell over powered the fragrance. The hostess didn’t even bother to spray it again – I guess she realized it was futile. It smelled as if the toilet had spilled over and was sloshing around in there. I hope it was a one-time fluke on a flight that was otherwise quite comfortable. But I have learnt my lesson – if I find myself on ASKY again, I am going to demand for a seat close to the front of the plane!

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

In Freetown  I started looking around for Senegal Airlines (which was listed as my next carrier on my itinerary). I asked around and generally found out that there was nothing like Senegal Airlines. But Africans are very helpful and someone suggested that it was ASKY. Then while looking around for the ASKY staff, another person was helpful enough to go hunting for the ASKY manager but returned to tell me that the ASKY manager had gone home and he would let me know ones the gentleman returns (my flight wasn’t going for another 2 hours or so).  The smell of alcohol was strong on his breath and I thought he was slightly drunk. He suggested I made myself comfortable. After about 30 minutes, I started asking around again and finally figured out that it was Brussels Airlines.

The flight was delayed for about an hour and a half.

Finally we were airborne.

So when I landed at Dakar, I stepped out of the terminal building and into the company of a couple of people. One was a Taxi driver and the other was Idris. I hesitate to call Idris a tout. He himself said he was into business and was hustling (not the completely negative connotation – think more along the line of a “fixer”). The Taxi man attempted to convince me to let him take me to my hotel since the complimentary hotel shuttle had left (my flight was delayed by about an hour and a half from Freetown . Once I told him I had no money and intended to wait, he lost interest. But Idris was not so easily dissuaded. He was going to assist me in any way he could. Pointing out where the hotel driver was likely to stand if he was actually waiting for me. In the meantime we got talking in the cold night air. Idris (according to him) speaks French (his native language as he is from Ouagadougou the Burkina Faso capital), Spanish, Italian, a little English and Hausa (but not Yoruba). He was working with some Senegalese “Expats” (for about 3 years) in Libya but was then deported when that country’s troubles started. He made his way to Senegal . He got married to a Senegalese lady and now has two children.

Football like religion gets worked into everything. Both are as divisive as they are cohesive. He suddenly remembered that we beat them at the African cup of nations recently. He burst out laughing.

Idris: “You. Are you married?”

Me: “No. Not yet.”

Idris: “Why now?”

Idris: “A man without why and children is not OK. But a man with a wife and children is ready for anything. You see in African culture, even if you have a wife but no children and you die, you are quickly forgotten. But if you have children, they will carry on your name. People will see them and say those and the children of Mr. so and so. When you have a wife benediction will follow.”

Idris: “You see I went to fish. I caught a big fish and stopped. Then I handed over to someone else and he too caught a big fish.”

Idris: “You should catch one Senegalese lady while you are here.”

Me: “She won’t follow me. Nigeria is too far.”

Idris: “Why not. She will.”

A cat passes by. I start to make “moose moose” noises. It paid me very little attention and sauntered on its merry way – shows it is completely at ease around humans.

Idris: “You like animals.”

Me: “Yes. Growing up we raised everything – chicken, pigs, sheep, goats, cattle, ducks, cats, dogs.”

Idris: “Good. It is good to like animals. They bring good luck.”

Idris: “It is good to have cats. If you treat them well, they have no ill will towards you. In fact, if something negative is about to happen, they give you a sign. They are mystic.”

Me: “Some people don’t like them though.”

Idris: “But cats don’t like any place where someone has died. They run away immediately (he said laughing).

That’s something I am hearing for the first time I think.

Idris: “But it is not good that you beat Burkina Faso. You used Juju.”

Me: “But someone has to win.”

Sometime later he mentioned again that Nigerians have plenty juju.

I put two and two together and asked if he watched a lot of Nigerian movies.

Idris: “Yes. On Africa Magic.”

He thinks we make good films. Of course, a lot of our African neighbors now think Juju is part and parcel of everyday life and as common as dogs and chickens roaming the streets.

So he thinks the real hustlers would only take the money off visitors to Senegal while he is more interested in building relationships. He gave me his number and says if I or any of my friends visiting Senegal needs help getting around or to get anything, we can always call on him.

He has two teeth missing from his lower jaw. He says he had an accident on a scooter he owned and but for God, he nearly died. He said he then sold the scooter to pay for his hospital bills. Now he doesn’t like getting on motorcycles.

Idris: “You are a good person.”

Me: “How do you know.” I smiled.

Idris: “You are a good person. I came to you even though you didn’t know me and you still talked to me. If you weren’t a good person, you would have pretended to get on your phone and be talking to someone. But at least you gave me audience. That is good. You have a good heart.”

I smiled and thanked him.

He waited with me until his wife called. He apologized and said he had to go. That is when he slipped in the request – anything I could give him out of the goodness of my heart. Today was a bad day (I assume business-wise). I really didn’t not have any local money. I told him so and he still took it well. But said I should save his number in case when next I come I need his services. I showed him the entry on my phone and that made him really happy. He said it is all about the relationship.

If indeed I come again to Senegal – especially if it is at my own behest – he would be the person I would definitely contact to take me around. If you are headed in that direction and you want his number, let me know.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Dakar is quite beautiful. So were the people as well. I understand that they loved sports and exercising a lot. As a colleague commented, even the older and middle-aged men did not sport big bellies. The beaches were full of people exercising.

One other thing, though there is alcohol, most citizens of Dakar don’t drink on account that the main religion is Islam. But a lot of them smoke – go figure. I guess the religion specifically mentions alcohol while there was no cigarette at the time the books were compiled. Yet, tobacco is just as destructive.

Well what happens in Dakar stays in Dakar. No, I am talking about myself. All I did was eat Gambas (over-sized prawns) and drink Pomme (apple juice with some of the fruit ground in). I am speaking for myself only of course.

Arrived Lagos at about 5:30AM. Didn’t get our luggage for over an hour earlier. I shouldn’t have checked in the darn thing. But I didn’t want to toss the 2 pieces of banana I had in the bag – and I wasn’t ready to eat them – and didn’t know if the scanner would have picked them up – yes, I guess I could be stubborn that way. Besides, the other guys except the boss checked in their luggage so I followed suit. Besides not having to mind the bag for the duration of trip sounded fun. That was Nigeria welcoming me back home in case I had forgotten how it “used” to be :-).

Valentine

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Valentine

The phone is on the desk. I need to turn off all the one hundred and one different sounds it makes for the calendar, SMS, and social apps. It’s now like a live thing with a mind of its own.

Talking about things and minds. It feels like the Dakar rally is going on inside my mind. Or maybe just the NASCAR.

The phone calls to me. It screams for me to pick it up. I resist as long as I can. But I always knew who or what would win the battle.

I pick up the phone.

I look at its blank face and wished my mind were just as blank as that. With no thoughts. No misgivings. Nothing. Empty like a wormhole that’s just come to life.

The contact book scrolls itself down to the magical letter. I had hoped it would not stop till it gets to letter Z. But who am I kidding. Not only did it stop at the right letter, it halted with “the” entry just off-screen – taunting me to swipe down the screen a little.

The phone whispered, “You know you want to.”

My forefinger hovered in the air. It twitched like an animal in its death throes. Maybe there is a spirit in it. It twitched again.

The finger made contact with the touchscreen. I watched in fascination as it swiped down in slow motion. I tried not to look at the screen, but resistance was futile.

There it was. The finger must have done a tap as well. It did have a life of its own. And a mind of its own. Because I never ordered that tap that opened up the contact’s details.

There used to be a picture in that box on the left. I removed it long ago. But I can still see it in my mind’s eye as if it was there staring back at me. Maybe it’s because the picture is still on my phone. In the memory stick – I just pretend I don’t know it is there.

All eleven digits. Reading it one by one. That took about 5 minutes. Or maybe I just read it over and over again for 5 minutes?

The green dial button whispered inaudibly. I couldn’t make out the words, but I heard them in my mind anyway: “Press me.”

It wouldn’t stop. It became irritating. I wished with all of my mind to make it stop. I begged it. I harangued it. I threatened to throw down the phone and grind it into the floor with the heels of my unshod feet. But it wouldn’t stop. It ignored me. It just kept whispering its 2 words.

I left the phone on the desk and went out of the room.

But the whispers continued. They weren’t coming from the phone: they had rooms in my mind.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I looked again at the numbers. If I press the dial button, would they suddenly become the 11 bullets in a weird gun I place against my head when I listen for the ringing at the other end to start?

The finger twitched again. It had a life of its own. It was in cahoots with the phone and the dial button. There was a conspiracy of epic proportions and it was all against me.

I felt the sweat trickle down my armpits. Despite the fact that the AC was going full blast, I was not even feeling cold: mind over matter.

It took all my will power to bring the finger under control. I was exhausted. But I had won.

I laid back on the bed and stared at the polka-dot patterns on the ceiling. I don’t know for how long. But it does not matter. Time does not matter. Nothing does.

The war goes on in Syria. Famine in Africa. Unrest in the Middle-East. Natural disasters in the northern hemisphere. Kidnappings just over the River Niger. Sad. It’s all sad. Very sad.

The phone whispered the word. “Sad”, it says. I knew where it was going. But it knew that I knew but that didn’t matter a bit. Because it was going to do what it was going to do.

I picked it up to silence it. I intended to switch it off. I don’t know if I pressed the SMS option or the phone did, but there it was on the screen.

My finger was over the power button. I almost succeeded. But I made the mistake and hesitated. Right at the bottom of the screen it read “3/157”. Which means I was 3 characters short of the 160 maximum I am allowed per SMS. I had not typed anything, so what was on the screen?

I had avoided looking at the face of the phone. But now there on the screen, the first letter of the SMS I had no plans to send, was the “sad face” smiley character.

The phone was taunting me. “You know you want to.”

“You know you want to.” “You know you want to.” “You know you want to.” “You know you want to.” “You know you want to.” “You know you want to.” “You know you want to.” “You know you want to.” “You know you want to.” “You know you want to.” “You know you want to.” “You know you want to.” “You know you want to.” “You know you want to.”

I refused. I won’t. I will not.

I looked on in horror as the finger twitched over the send button. It was going to send the smiley-face character. I looked away and fought with all my will power. As my heartbeat returned to normal, I looked again at the screen. I had won. The SMS was still there, and even better, the smiley-face was gone. I pressed the back button and the phone presented me with options again: to cancel or to return to the SMS. I know what it wanted me to choose. But I cancelled all the same.

If this was a fair fight, I should have won now. Two rounds out of three. I shouldn’t have to fight the last round. All is fair in love and war.

Maybe in war, but not in love.

I didn’t call. I didn’t SMS. What else did it want from me!

I wished I had a Nokia 3310 instead of an Android – a droid is a robot. They are meant to obey humans. But this one has achieved awareness and there was nothing I could do about it. It has failed to obey the second fundamental law of robotics: Isaac Asimov would be proud.

Nokia 3310. No space for big icons. It would have been nice, for suddenly the big screen was filled with social media shortcuts: Facebook, Whatsapp, Viber, Myspace, yourspace, ourspace, whosespace, who knows.

Round and round they went in a dizzying loop. Like Lollipops spinning round a little kid. All I needed to do was reach out and touch one. Make the connection. Leave a message. What can happen.

I closed my eyes tight. I could still see them. All those icons rushing round and round like on a merry-go-round. Reaching out, calling me, taunting me. “Pick me!!”, each one screamed!

Who shall ascend into the hill of the LORD? Or who shall stand in his holy place? He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart; who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity, nor sworn deceitfully.

Pure heart. Pure feelings. Pure desires. Pure wants. Pure needs. Pure … nothing.

Facebook won the musical chairs going on in my mind. I updated my status with some random thoughts that had nothing to do with anything. The phone was satisfied,  but I did not post what it wanted me to. But it didn’t know that.

I had won.

Three times out of three.

I am supposed to be happy.

Come with me

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Come with me

Come with me
Says a close friend to me
There is unpleasant task at hand
But it needs must be done

The day was dreary
The Sun was weary
Such days are for men to sleep like the dead
So I put on a shirt of colour
To put some light into the day

My friend called it false
And bid me put on black
For where we go
A pall is laid on all
A friend is passed on to who knows where
I knew he was in trouble
But I only asked once or twice
And he said I need not worry
Time heals all wounds
Now he is dead and gone
I would that I need not go
But I have dined at his table several times
And his sisters – don’t they call me brother?

The mother held the casket like life itself
The father did not take it like a man
As we filed past the coffin
I looked in and was surprised to find him in repose
If it were a bed, I would have thought he was asleep
But in the casket where he laid, the smell of death though faint was there indeed

We stayed awhile
With heads bowed in silent consideration of the pains of those alive
And the thought of the dearly departed
And after an hour or so
I asked my friend if he knew of what malady the young man died
Loneliness he said.
The look on my face betrayed my lack of believe
But he bid me hold my peace
I know I will know more in time
But not in that place for respect of the dead and the sorrowful

Could loneliness take so young a life?
I think my friend spoke in parables
For stick and stones may break bones
But thoughts of the heart
Surely, they may wrinkle brows
But take life, I thought not

Loneliness he said
Maybe I heard him wrong
In that silent room in which he whispered
The walls might have swallowed a syllable or two

Time passed slowly
Meaningless in the room
While men rushed about in the gathering gloom
And the voice of one who lady luck had given a boon

And as we bid the family adieu
I could not resist the urge to gaze for one more time upon that peaceful face
Drawing near I looked in again
What surprise! It was I that laid in state.

2:30AM 19/Jan/2013

Refuse Refuse

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Took the picture below somewhere in Ibadan a couple of weeks ago …

dump_refuse

I am going to assume that the refuse in the signpost’s background is from before the signpost was put up (seeing as Nigerians are on the average quite supersititious 🙂

By the way, the title of this blog entry is “Refuse (reject) refuse” and not “Refuse (garbage) refuse (garbage) or “”refuse (reject) refuse (reject)” :-). On the other hand, both words seem to have a common root (see http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/refuse).

Wild

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Wild

I was found in the wild
Told I was lost
Made to wear shorts
and put on a shirt
I am now civilized
On the inside or outside?

I was happy in the wild
Unencumbered by cloth and shoes
I was happy to jiggle
I didn’t know what it was
Till they told me
I just liked the air as it coursed between my legs

I am lost in the city
Men’s ways confound me
I couldn’t care less for the fork
My fingers hold the stew
Better than the metallic spoon
They said Silver was for the ears
Then I found it on the table

I lost the plot
They lost the plot
I didn’t know there was a plot
Which plot?
The one where I give up the freedom of the wild
For the shackles of the city?
No, not that one. may be the other?

I was sent to school
I wrote words on paper
Then I wiped with paper?
It was hot on the inside
Moving leaves told of cooling breeze
So I took to the trees

I left the shorts and the shirt
Neatly folded on the patio
While they watched animals on the video
Why? The Owl was on the fence and the Aardvark in the field across the road
I am free once again
They can call it jiggle while they giggle
Me, I just like the air as it courses between my legs
Out here in the wild

24-01-2013 20:53pm (Freedom Hall)

Power Holden Company of Nigeria Plc

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So I was at the mechanics a few days ago. It was getting dark and while waiting for the car, I wandered around the compound and came to a probably abandoned PHCN Hilux (a little truck with an open back).
I noticed the company sticker on the passenger-side door (pictured below) read “Power Holden Company of Nigeria Plc”
So I went round to the other side and exactly the same sticker was on the driver-side door as well. The strange thing was that the much bigger (probably painted-on as opposed to being a sticker like the ones on the doors) logo on the bonnet was correctly spelled (as Power Holding Company of Nigeria Plc).

phcn

What do you do?

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What do you do?

So I won’t call it “profiling”. Instead let’s call it “random sampling”.

It was after the passport check by the airline staff and on the way to board the flight. There were 3 airport security officers (a lady and 2 men) standing along the “corridor”. Just as I was about to walk past, one of the men stepped forward and asked for my passport which I handed over (there was some almost unspoken communication between them to pull me to the side – I could see it though – more like some short words between them to “nail that one”). He then gestured for me to step to the side while flipping through it (looking at my VISAs)
“Hi, what was the purpose of your visit to the UK”
“Visiting”
“How much currency are you leaving with”
“About 8 pounds”
“So you spent it all (attempt to “lighten” the tone of the conversation)”
“Yes”
“What kind of business are you into back home?”
“I.T.”
“Do you have any other currency with you?”
“Naira.”
“Like how much?”
“About a 1,000.”
“Thanks. Have a safe trip.”
“Thanks.”

I hope I have satisfied the Home Office as to my suitability to be allowed back in in the future :-). Now back to that profiling bit:

I suspect it was the way I looked. Black form-fitted formal shirt – tucked out, a pair of dark glasses on top of my head (not a fashion statement, the darn thing is not fold-able, so putting it “on” my head is a way to keep it safe and unbroken), only an obviously under-full (no word like that) black computer bag (see below for more details on Nigerians and luggage). Hmm. Did I resemble a “Yahoo! Yahoo!”?

Maybe. But I am not.

So I will be back 🙂

And if you look back in time on this blog, you will see my first encounter which is even more hilarious (some people won’t find it funny – but my advise is that piece of advice going round about how to live life – don’t take yourself too seriously – otherwise you may needlessly burst an artery because you feel slighted by the fact that they are asking you “certain” questions. See “http://illumination2.wordpress.com/2008/03/12/crank-dat-naija-boy/” (Note: the first couple of paragraphs is not meant to be racist – just pointing a fact out – probably should edit it out but it was written so long ago. You should read it 🙂

Now that I hope I have rubbed the Home Office right, how about that 10-year VISA next time?

How about it? 🙂

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Talking about luggage sizes. There was an announcement on the public address system that luggage will be checked for size and weight at the boarding gate, and oversized ones will be taken away and stowed on behalf of the owners who should ensure no valuables or fragile things are in there – I don’t blame them – it is the way my country people “pack” when they are travelling “home” (And by the time we actually boarded the plain, one of those luggage trolleys used by the airline was full of over-sized luggage parted sometimes almost forcefully from their reluctant owners 🙂

I sat next to a middle-aged woman while waiting to board. She was on the phone with someone. “You see I always watch what I buy, I never have overload. But it was Isaac, if you see all the shirts he packed and packed. Heavy heavy shirts for his children. Now I had to pay overload. I paid 84 pounds. I only had 7 pounds. So I had to go and change dollars to pounds. (I think the other party asked about someone who should have been there with her and possibly paid for charges)
“I didn’t see him/her until after I had paid. He will give me back my money.”

Then there was a lady that sat across from me while waiting to board. she had a little girl with her that was probably about 9 or so years. She said the daughter was eager to go to Nigeria (having never been there). She herself has not been to Nigeria since she left some 10 years ago. Flew in from Belgium the previous night and had to spend the night in the airport since the connecting flight to Lagos was at 12:55PM “today.”
She said she had called ahead and arranged for her younger sister’s hubby to pick up some “relations” she met abroad who was coming in to Nigeria (she wanted her arrival to be a shocker to them). They must have got the time wrong because it appears they went to the airport at 7AM in the morning rather than 7PM in the evening when our flight was supposed to arrive. They called her that the “relation” hadn’t made contact with them – so she corrected the time and they would be waiting for the “relation” in the evening.

On arrival in Lagos, usual wait for the luggage to “arrive.”
I finally got my two bags on the trolley and headed for the exist. The immigration officers were indicating from afar that I should “pull over”in their direction.
“Hello sir. Can I have your passport.”
I rummaged for it in my computer bag and handed it over.
“Where are you coming from sir”
“Amsterdam”
“Do you live there?”
“No. I am based here in Lagos.”
“What do you do?”
“I.T.”
All the while he was looking through the passport.
“Ah! You are even Yoruba.” (Classic attempt to play the tribal card.)
“Mr. I.T.A.Y.E.M.I.”
“Yes.”
“Ewo le jeku bo fun wa” (What did you chop remain for us from your trip.”
“Oju Olorun ni gbogbo wa nwo.” (We are all seeking the face of God – I think I said it in English rather than Yoruba. Though I believe I learnt it is disrespectful to answer someone in an alternate language than they addressed you with if you can actually speak that language very well – not sure where I heard it – on the other hand, it is quite an effective way to prevent their attempt to “form familiarity” (like a particular “friend”would say) with you.
“OK. Safe journey.”
“Thank you.”
Turned left and headed for the exit passing in front of another group of uniformed people.
A lady among them told me to stop.
“But they have just checked me over there.”
“That is Immigration. This is Customs.” Pointing to her uniform (Grey as opposed to the migration Yellowish-brown).
“Can I see what is in the bag.” She pointed to the bigger one which was lowest of the two bags on the trolley. Which meant I had to drop the smaller one, then open the combination lock on the bag. I think it is psychology. Probably expect one to hide anything illegal in the lower bag hoping they will just search the upper one. She dug in her hand and had a proper extensive rummage through the bag.
“All these are yours?” (I guess possibly wondering if they are for resale) 
“Yes. If you check the size, you will notice they are more or less the same.”
“Is it the same thing in the other bag?”
“Yes.”
“OK. You can go.”
“Thank you.”
Finally out through the inner exit.
Then stopped by the tag checker.
I handed over the boarding pass with the tags stuck to the back.
“Welcome sir. Happy New Year. what do you have for your boys on duty.”
I smiled and said something like “Sorry. Not this time.”
“It is well.” he answered, giving me back the boarding pass.
Finally, I was outside the terminal with the sideways questions about “whether I needed a taxi.”
I usually answered “No” or shook my head (I think it is impolite not to answer – they are just trying to make ends meet just like the rest of us).

And finally 🙂
Next day, I decided to divest myself of the mini-jungle on my head. So I made my way to my barber’s shop.
He was cutting a middle-aged gentleman’s hair when I got there so I waited.
Afterwards, the man got up ever so gingerly.
“It is this my knee. I went to Lekki yesterday to run and I must have damaged something.”
“I guess it is old age.” He said. He smiled and I smiled back.
“The pain seems to move around your body. Today it is your knee. Tomorrow it is your waist. If I am feeling like this, I think about my 84-year old mother and wonder how she copes.”
I wanted to tell him that he may be amazed that the mum may not feel much worse than he is feeling – the “Oldies” were more active physically all through their lives that “us” couch an comfort potatoes (from car AC to office AC to house AC to club AC – almost no sweating, walking or physical exertions. The househelp is there to do everything from cooking to taking care of the children and their clothing). The “Oldies” didn’t wait until middle-age to start thinking about exercising (in order to stick around longer to enjoy “your money” – it was part and parcel of their way of life – for some of them anyway – and yes, they still had a good time during their youth – they partied just as well as people do nowadays – but rather than just sit with beer bellies guzzling “spirits” as men do now, they “guzzled” the spirit but danced it away as well 🙂
But I didn’t say anything. I just smiled.
After he left, the barber commented:
“Nice guy. You should know him. He is the “relation” of “name-withheld” on your street.”
I commented that he looked familiar.
Then the barber told me the following story.
The man that had just left just returned from “location-withheld”. He called the barber to come to his “relation’s” house to come and cut his hair. The barber told him that he has been banned from coming to the house. Why?
So he says he had an arrangement with the master of the house to come first thing at 7AM every Monday to come and cut his hair. He would leave his house (on the very far side of Lagos) about 4:30AM and make it to this gentleman’s house well before 7AM. The man won’t show up until 8 or 8:30AM.
On one of thos trips he arrive 5 minutes after 7AM. It appears for once, the man was waiting for him, so he was “late.”
The man didn’t say anything, but he cut his hair. Afterwards, the man asked him “How much do you charge in your shop for haircuts?”
“N200, sometimes N300.”
“On your way out go to the Security man and ask him to give you N300.”
So he went to the security post but the guard wasn’t there, so he left – he wasn’t particularly happy about the money anyway.
Next Monday, he cut the man’s hair again. Afterwards, the man asked “Did you collect the N300 last week?”
“No Sir. The security man wasn’t there when I was left.”
“OK. Go now and collect N300 for the haircut.”
I think the barber then “vexed” and left without collecting the money.
So he was banned from ever setting foot in the compound again.
So that was the reason why the gentleman had to come to his shop.
Something the gentleman said just before leaving may or may not lend weight to the truthfulness of the story. He asked a couple of times if he could drop the barber off somewhere that would be easy for him to get a bus home. I learn’t from the barber that the reason the man asked was that he was already packed up and ready to go with a neighbor offering him lift part of the way home when the gentleman had called to say he needed a haircut, so I guess he felt partly responsible for the barber missing the free ride. The barber got N1000 for his troubles. Being my first visit of the year, I paid half of that as well 🙂

FRIDAY

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FRIDAY

Yesterday was my birthday. I had assumed it would just be as uneventful as the 37 others before it. Boy, was I wrong.
It started out just like every other day I can remember. I made it to work just shy of the boss docking my pay, but I still got the evil look from him anyway. It was as if by coming in one minute before 8, I had deprived him of the satisfaction he would have derived from telling me that I might as well go back home since I was not going to get paid for the day – not that I could take him up on the offer – I had bills to pay and no response yet from the several companies I had sent unsolicited job applications to.
No one at work knew it was my birthday – except maybe the boss – but I knew my secret was safe with him – the skinflint wasn’t going to risk having to give me a present or buy the office lunch by announcing it was my birthday.
I can’t really remember exactly what I did before lunch, but I had made up my mind to treat myself to a reasonable lunch. I wasn’t particularly looking forward to it, the only thing that would have made it special was to share the lunch with a special someone. The person I had in mind would have joined me for lunch only in her nightmare and my daydream: I guess there was a better chance of being hit by a flying boat on the second floor of my office building.
But time passed and the alarm on my laptop announced it was lunchtime, so I got up and headed for the eatery down the street.
It was relatively quiet for a Friday, but I guessed it was maybe related to the fact that the Muslim brethren were probably still at the mosques. I took a corner seat at a table and hoped no one else would join me. I looked at the menu, called a waitress over and ordered the most expensive dish on it despite the fact that I only knew what was in it after I had asked the waitress: the name of the dish was in French.
I must have been right because shortly afterwards, the place started to fill up. I soon had a companion on my corner table. Two strangers on the table. I wondered why he hadn’t sat at any of the other vacant tables in the place. Now I was wedged against the wall and I was no longer “feeling” it. I couldn’t very well ask him to move, so I resigned myself and went on eating my food. At least he was quiet and didn’t trying to make conversation – that was something to be thankful for.

The food wasn’t bad. The sudden “company” I could have done without. We were soon joined by a third person who sat opposite the first.
They both ordered lunch and while I ate slowly, they waited for their food.
I didn’t pay them much attention until the keening sound started. I looked up to find the first fellow doing what could only be described as playing with his food. He was using his fork to drag the individual bean seeds in his food gradually from the center of the plate all the way to the edge. The sound the fork made on the plate was quite disconcerting. But who was I to complain? If I wanted first class service, I shouldn’t be hanging around in economy. Maybe the guy wasn’t hungry or had a lot on his mind. He was reasonably well dressed: shirt, trousers and a tie.
Anyway, it was more interesting to watch the face of the fellow seated across from him. He had stopped eating. And the swiftly changing expression on his face hinted at a more serious struggle going on within – I think he was trying to control himself and not say anything. Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore. Dropping his fork on the plate, “What are you doing?” he asked.
The other fellow stopped dragging a bean seed midway to the edge of the plate. Instead, he tapped the bean repeatedly with the prongs of the fork, but he didn’t say anything.
“What are you doing?” The question was repeated.
“Mind your own business.”
“Crazy idiot.”
Even now I still doubt whether I actually saw what happened next, because it was so fast, I wonder if it isn’t the fact that I was subsequently involved that maybe makes me think I actually saw it happen. “It” was the quickness, with which the fellow with the fork sprang up and stabbed down with the fork on the palm of the other guy, but he didn’t stop there (and the next action I definitely witnessed.)
The fork was out of the palm and in flight once again as the scream filled the room. This time it went into the side of the neck. As the blood spurted out, he sat back down again and resumed moving the bean one by one to the edge of his plate. The red on his plate was now much brighter than the red from the palm oil that the beans floated in originally. The other fellow made a tinny sound and sliding sideways, disappeared under the table.
It was obvious I needed to get out of there immediately, but the fellow had me hemmed in, and I was hesitant to ask him to excuse me unless I was ready for a “fork fight”.
I needn’t have bothered because the decision was taken out of my hand in a couple of minutes. As the place emptied out into the street, a couple of mobile policemen came in.

“Halt. No one goes out. Stay where you are or we shoot.”
Apart from two or three waiters and waitresses, there were only about five customers left in the place: I think twice that number must have made it out before the policemen came in.

One of the policemen men prodded the man on the floor with the muzzle of his rifle: “This one is dead O.”
The other one looked around at all of us in the place: “If you have blood on you, you are coming with us.”
I checked my cloth and was glad to notice no visible blood stains.
Someone asked, “Why officer?”
“Because you have evidence on you.”
“Can’t we just give you the cloth and go”
“Are you joking? You can’t just go away with the evidence now. and if you step out of that door without your clothes, you have doubled your offence. That is indecent exposure and disturbing the peace.”
“But you have been told who is responsible already. And you can see he is not even denying it.”
“How can we be sure you are not co-conspirators? You have to assist us with our investigation.”
“Ok. Stop wasting our time. If you know you are involved or have the victim’s blood on you, move to my left. If you do not have blood on you move to my right. Welcome to your father’s kingdom. If you work here and don’t have blood on you join those on my right. If you are the manager here, join those on my left.”
“Mr. Criminal. Drop the fork and stand up.”
The man next to me finally dropped the fork and getting up, slowly joined the little group on the policeman’s left. Finally, I was able to leave the table. I gingerly stepped over what pool of blood I could see on the floor, and made for the policeman’s right and hopefully to freedom and back to work: I don’t think I have ever been that happy at the thought of going to sit behind my office desk.
“Gentleman. Where are you going?” The policeman directed his question at me.
“Respect yourself O. Is that not blood on your trousers? Join your friends on my left.”
I protested that the blood must have come from my brushing against the table as I got up.
“OK. You are trying to teach me my job now eh? So you were even sitting beside the main criminal? Just three of you? You are either a victim or a criminal. Since you are not stabbed, you are a criminal. Abeg, don’t waste my time, join your friends.”
There were now about seven of us on his left and four people on his right.
“The innocent shall not be punished unjustly. My friends, you are free to go.”
The four he addressed hot footed it out of the place in less than a minute.
“The ambulance is coming. Once it gets here, we will all leave in our vehicle.”
Soon, we were all aboard the police vehicle – a Toyota Hilux with a covered back. The “main” criminal was asked to get in first, followed by the rest of us who were “guilty by location”, lastly the policemen, who sat at the outer edge: I got the impression the policemen were trying to stay as far away from him as possible. As we pulled away, I noticed two paramedics exit the restaurant with the other man on a stretcher: I had assumed there would be a sheet over him, but there was none.
The trip to the station was hot and despite the station being only a couple of streets away, it took the better part on an hour under the relentless midday Sun and the gridlocked motor traffic.
We were matched at a rather quick pace into the station. We were soon “processed” in. One by one, we answered a few questions by the constable behind the desk, turned out our pockets, belt, shoes, declared our possessions and signed a sheet stating so.  The DPO emerged from some back office at about this time, took one look at us and commented “So these are the ones eh?” And with that, he receded back to his office.
The captain or whatever his rank was who was in charge continued to harangue us.
“That is my boss. You can see he knew already that you were coming. He is the alpha and omega in this station. And he has ordered us to give you the VIP treatment. If you don’t like how we treat you, you can say so at any time. We will then upgrade you to the very VIP “V.V.I.P.” category. Very few people complain when we put them in that category. But in case we have goats among you, there is even one additional category after that one, it is by invitation only: we invite you there when we see by your action that you are deserving very special treatment.”
“Gentlemen, follow me.”
We passed through one side of the counter to where the holding cells were situated.
One man asked if he could get his one phone call (our phones were collected at the restaurant).
“Ha ha ha. Free phone call. I am sure you have DSTV in your house. Is it Crime and Investigation you watch? You want to teach me my job? I think we should upgrade you pronto.”
“Constable!” Shouting to the officer behind the desk.
“Sir! Yes Sir!” Came the disembodied response.
“Do we still have space in the Very VIP lounge?”
“No Sir. Maybe later this evening. One prisoner has asked to be downgraded. He is waiting for his people to come and fulfill all righteousness.”
“You be lucky man O your highness. Please remind me in the evening to revisit your case.” He said to the man who had requested the phone call.
We were all perspiring, but the “phone call” man was shedding it in buckets. He was visibly shaking.
We soon came to one of the cells which appeared empty. The policeman opened it, and was about to ask us to file in when he peaked inside – there was apparently someone in there.
“You, come out here!” The policeman shouted.
A diminutive looking man came out slowly. One could immediately see why it was easy to miss him – he was a certain shade of “dark” that blended with the darkness in the far corner of the cell where he had been sitting. He was the kind of fellow you wouldn’t want as a foe on a dark moonless night.
“Constable! What is this man still doing here?!” The policeman bellowed.
“We never see his people O! E be like say dey don default O!”
“Oga move to one side! Abi you wan remain there? Wetin your crime again?”
“I steal sir.”
“Wetin you steal?”
“Goat sir.”
“Ordinary goat. How long you don dey here?”
“Three months sir.”
“E be like say the witches in your hometown follow you come Lagos? You wan make we pack you ordinary thief with these murder suspects abi? Na there them come finally finish you be that O!”
“Gerrrout and stand over there.”
“You still dey wait for invitation?” He was addressing us. So we went into the cell.
“Make yourself at home. The constable will invite you one by one for a one to one meeting very soon. So we know how to handle your case.” with that he locked the door behind him and was gone.
The trouble I was in became more obvious. No one would be looking for me. And I couldn’t think of anyone to call even if I had the chance. Maybe my boss – maybe not. I suspect he will courier my sack letter to the policestation under the guise that company policy does not allow for convicts on the payroll.
After about an hour, the constable shouted a name. 

No one answered. I guess no one could make out the name he called out properly or we all just missed it because we were preoccupied with our thoughts. He yelled the name again. This time someone answered. Then we heard his shoes beat a pattern to the cell door.

“Who be dat? You wan make I use megaphone call una?”

Which was ridiculous. It wasn’t as if we could leave the cell and stroll down to the frontdesk when he called. He needed to come and let out the person, so why shout the name and demand an answer first before showing up.

The hapless fellow was let out of the cell, while a few of the other inmates started begging and talking in unison – asking to be allowed to at least call someone.

“Order!” He shouted.

“One by one na so we go shave una heads. U don see fish wey dey in a hurry to swim inside peppersoup before?”

About 20minutes later, the constable returned with the fellow. The look on his face wasn’t too encouraging. It appeared none of the people he called could make it down to the station: either they were far away, didn’t want police trouble or had no money. It looked as if he would be spending at least one night there.

I wasn’t in a much better situation myself. In the meantime, I found I was somehow the one seated closest to the gentleman who landed all of us in our present situation. The other 5 guys were obviously clustered together away from the two of us. I was wondering how I came to be in the wrong group when the constable bellowed another name again. This time the response was immediate and the fellow was standing at the cell door by the time the constable showed up. Another disappearing act for about 20minutes. There was a noticeable difference in the fellow’s demeanor when he returned. His uncle was sending someone to come and bail him out in about an hour.

This went on until it was my turn. I followed the constable to the front desk.

He repeated my name for confirmation and I obliged.

“What was your purpose at the crime scene.”

“I went there to eat.”

“To eat?” He sounded incredulous.

“Do you always go there to eat?”

“No. In fact it is my birthday. I was giving myself a treat.”

“Your birthday? You don’t say.”

“You should have told us that since now. We would have given you special treatment.”
Going by the way they used the word when we got to the station, even if I had remembered it was my birthday, I probably wouldn’t have mentioned it then.

“Hmmn.”

“How we go celebrate am now?” he asked me.

He picked up the list describing my personal effects and scanned it quickly with his eyes.

“Oga, there is enough money here to throw a small party o. Make I call my second make he arrange something? I can’t leave this desk but he is outside and I know say he is willing and able.”

If he thought the little amount in my purse was a goldstrike, then I am much more well off than I gave myself credit for. Buying them lunch couldn’t hurt either. I gave him the go ahead. He handed me back my purse, I fished out some notes, and handed him back both the cash and the purse. He took a second to change the amount recorded on my sheet (downwards).

“Oga. It may help to extend your goodwill to the DPO too O.”

I guess the DPO deserved “special” treatment above and beyond his subordinates. Another exchange of purse and money again and we were good.

“Thank you. You will remember today for good. Many happy returns of the day sir.”

The day had taken a decidedly sad turn several hours earlier: did he even understand the meaning of those words – in my present condition?

I mumbled an unenthusiastic “Amen.”

“Constable Mabawonwi!”

There was a small commotion outside and another policeman rushed in.

He stood to attention.

“Sir! Yes Sir!”
“My Lord. Here I am. Send me!”

One could see he was just fooling around pretending the first policeman was his superior.

“Can you imagine. It is my oga’s birthday today and he has decided to bless us abundantly according to his riches in glory.”

More well wishes from the second policeman after which he was dispatched to go and get the food and some drinks.

“Hmmn. Back to the issue at hand. How we go do am now? You go get someone to come and bail you? If you want, we can follow you to the ATM, then you can come back and we release you on self-recognition. As I see you so, I dey sure you are an upstanding citizen.”

The beginning of an idea. Maybe I won’t spend the night in that cell after all.

I asked him about the bail amount and he gave me what he said was a discounted figure due to my special status. Under other conditions, I would have wondered if I was at the police station or a comedy house.

I knew the amount in my bank account to the nearest Naira give or take a kobo or two. Unfortunately, it was several thousands short of the bail amount.

I told him I was short of money.

“How we go do am now? I don try for you O.”

I racked my brain for several minutes. Thinking where I may have money outside my bank account. Finally I remembered a debt owed me by a former colleague who had been promising to pay for a long time but always defaulted when the time agreed comes round. I had given up all hope and mentally written off the money as a bad loan several months back. But with nowhere else to turn, I thought I would give it a try.

I explained the situation to the constable and asked if I may use my phone.

He handed it over.

I scrolled through my contact list and pressed dial on his number.

“Hello Dele. Long time. How now.” I was surprised I got through to him. He had stopped taking my calls some time ago.

“My Oga. How is it going?”

“So so. I need your help. I am at the police station.”

I was embarrassed to even say so. I had never had any troubles with the police in all my 38 years and now in one fell sweep I have a criminal record and have seen the inside of a police cell.

“Wetin you dey do there? You don change your career?”

“No.” The joke wasn’t lost on me, but I was not in a position to find it funny.

“I am in a small trouble. Can you please bring the money you owe me to the station by the office. I need it to settle my bail.”

Brief silence. Then it sounded as if someone was raking the phone over a rough surface, followed by “Hello. The line is breaking up. Hello I can’t hear you. Let me call you back.”

Silence.

“Just joking O. In fact I have the money now. Give me about 3 hours. I will be there with you.”

“Thanks Dele. God will bless you.”

“You too bro. I know you don vex long time ago. I didn’t have the money which is why I stopped taking your calls. But maybe it’s God that withheld the money for a day like this eh? See you soon.”

That was a miracle if indeed miracles happen.

I repeated the good news to the constable. He became even friendlier.

“Oga, if not for say the area commander don start to dey make surprise visit, I for ask you to perch here with me for my office O, but how I go explain say criminal dey mann frontdesk if he shows up? When your others dey inside cell? No vex O, but na so e be. But as soon as your friend shows up, you don free be dat O.”

With that, it was back to the cell for me.

I was the last person he took out of the cell. The only other person who hadn’t paid a visit to the frontdesk was the man that had wielded the fork.

And after expecting the constable to call him for about 30 minutes, I assumed they weren’t going to offer him the bail option – after all his victim was dead.

I waited for my friend to show up.

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