13 Feb Thomas’ Bitter Experience in Police Cell For ‘Stealing His Own Bag’

“Hey! Bushman! Where are you?”

Thomas heard the shouting but he had no idea how to respond. He was cut and bruised, stripped to his underwear, and trapped in a police cell with some of the most wretched and desperate men in Nigeria.

“C’mon, Bushman!” the voice once again bellowed. “Show yourself!”

Thomas sat on the cold cement floor with his back up against the stone wall. He wrapped his bruised arms around his aching ribcage and glanced around, amazed that fifteen people could be crammed into such a small, filthy cell. The smell invaded his every sense: it was the stench of degradation, menace and fear. The only ventilation came from a tiny window. In the far corner sat a big plastic bin, which the inmates used as a toilet.

He wondered if any of his bones were broken or if he might be suffering from internal bleeding. The pain in his chest was excruciating; every time he drew in a deep breath he winced. He wished the policemen at the jail would take him to the hospital, not only so his badly battered body could be examined by a doctor, but as a reprieve from being locked in a cage with men who looked like the city’s most hardened criminals.

He felt a cough coming on. He tried mightily to stifle it but his body would not listen to his brain. The cough rattled out of his mouth, causing such a sharp jab in his ribs that it forced tears from his eyes. To make matters worse, he was completely exhausted and wanted nothing more than to drift off to sleep; but he did not dare close his eyes. He was afraid that he might never wake up again.

“I’m getting tired of waiting, Bushman!”  The voice sounded like a clap of thunder.

Thomas rubbed his good eye and tried to calm himself down. Someone poked his sore shoulder. Thomas turned to see a man kneeling next to him.

“He’s talking to you,” the man said quietly. “You realise that, don’t you?”

Thomas lifted his head just enough to glance around the cell. He was completely confused. “Me?”

The man nodded and smirked. “You shouldn’t keep the Boss waiting.”

Thomas swallowed hard. “The Boss?”

The man reached over, grabbed Thomas by the crook of the arm, and helped him to his feet. Thomas winced in pain, desperate to find a way to soothe his tortured ribs.

The man directed Thomas’s attention to the far end of the cell. “You’d better see what he wants,” he instructed. “You don’t look like you could stand another beating.”

Thomas looked over and saw the only man in the holding cell who had been granted the right to wear a simple white T-shirt. He looked menacing and powerful, as if he were the czar of the prison. What in the world could he possibly want from me?

He took a wobbly step and stumbled. The other man caught him and helped him maintain his balance. Thomas tried to steady himself, and then cautiously weaved his way through the forest of dirty bodies as the stench of sweat, urine, smoke, and cheap liquor assaulted his nostrils. Although the journey across the cell was no more than ten paces, it felt like a fifty-mile hike.

Gingerly, Thomas approached the man known as the Boss. Unlike the other prisoners, the Boss had been afforded a few basic amenities by the policemen. Aside from the T-shirt, the Boss sat on a reasonably comfortable folding chair, and he had an ample supply of cigarettes. He took a deep drag from one of them and exhaled a long stream of rancid smoke directly into Thomas’s face. His stomach retched from the stale air, causing his injured ribs to send a stinging pain up his spine. He steadied his stance, trying his best to maintain both his safety and his final shred of dignity. He still did not know what he was supposed to say or do.

“Toshiba me!” the Boss commanded.

An uncomfortable silence settled between the two men. Thomas frantically tried to decipher the Boss’s demand. He was about to politely ask for clarification when a vicious blow to the back of his head buckled his knees and dropped him to the concrete floor directly at the Boss’s feet. Tears rolled down Thomas’s bruised face as he scrambled to stand up.

“What’s the matter, Bushman?” a man’s voice bellowed from behind Thomas. He assumed it belonged to the thug who had just hit him.

“Don’t they have Toshiba fans in your village? We call fanning ‘Toshiba’ here!” The remark inspired a roar of laughter and an onslaught of jeers from the other inmates.

The Boss cut his hand sharply through the air, and the clamour from the rest of the men ceased instantly. He waved a folded newspaper back and forth in front of Thomas’s face before tossing it to him. Thomas was not ready to catch it, and the paper hit him in the chest and fell to the floor.

The Boss rolled his eyes and let out an irritable sigh. “Pick it up and get to work, Bushman,” he muttered.

Thomas reached down to retrieve the newspaper, an action that caused his ribs to protest against with great pain. He silenced an agonised groan as he stood back up, clutching the paper in his aching hand. He concluded that he had been summoned to fan the Boss, so he waved the paper in an up and down motion, careful not to twist or otherwise aggravate his numerous injuries.

The Boss closed his eyes for a moment as the breeze cooled his skin. “That’s better,” he approved quietly, “nice and easy. Some of these guys flap that paper so hard that I feel like I’m trapped in a damn wind tunnel.”

Thomas’s nerves rattled as he tried to maintain an even motion with the newspaper.

“You Bushmen are so foolish,” the Boss scowled. “You refuse to recognise that Lagos has nothing to offer you. The city is too crowded. It cannot tolerate your never-ending migration. You all wind up in the streets — or in your case, in this cell — and everyone else has to take care of you. If they don’t, you die. And many of your kind already have.”

The Boss’s words, and the ignorance they expressed, shocked Thomas to the point of paralysis. He stopped waving the folded newspaper and glared at the beefy, sweaty hulk of a man. Before he had a chance to completely analyse the Boss’s irresponsible remarks, Thomas felt a sharp strike to his right temple. The blow snapped his head sideways so hard that he felt the impact all the way down to his feet.

“Toshiba the Boss, Bushman!” a man yelled.

Thomas shook the cobwebs out of his head and tried to steady his hand as he resumed his fanning. The Boss took another deep drag from his cigarette and blew out a dense billow of smoke. Thomas felt his nose clog in revolt against the dirty air as it tried to enter his lungs.

“So, fragile boy,” the Boss remarked, “what were you doing before you were brought to this lovely facility of ours? You don’t look like the kind of man who tills the ground, and you certainly don’t have the personality of a common criminal.”

Thomas was startled when the Boss reached out and grabbed his wrist. The newspaper fell out of his hands and landed on his feet. The Boss stroked his calloused fingers across Thomas’s open palm.

“Oh, yes,” he said through a chuckle. “Very soft, like silk.”

He released Thomas and sat back in his chair. With a wave of his own large, coarse hand he ordered him to retrieve the paper and get back to work. Thomas resumed his duty, but his arm was getting tired and his patience was waning.

“You must be a real Daddy’s Boy, Bushman,” the Boss cracked. “We see quite a few of you in Lagos — just not for very long.”

Thomas eyed the Boss, trying to comprehend the remark.

Another man smirked and shook his head. “You’ll die here, boy,” he muttered. “You don’t stand a chance.”

Thomas drew in a deep breath to compose himself, still working hard to avoid choking on the thick, musty air.

“Tell us, Bushman,” the Boss prodded. “What brings you to our wonderful city? Really, we are all just dying to know.”

Thomas drew a deep breath before speaking. “I am a graduate of Sociology with a minor in Economics,” he explained. “I taught in Ife for some years, but I got bored. I had gone as far as I could go there, so I came down to Lagos to find a job relevant to my training.”

The Boss pulled another long drag off his cigarette and snorted the smoke directly into Thomas’s face. Thomas worked hard to suppress a cough, but it eventually erupted from his mouth.

“You want a job in a bank or oil company, boy?” the Boss barked. “You must think you’re pretty smart. Let me ask you this: if you’re so smart, how did you wind up here tonight?”

Thomas wiped the sweat off his brow, careful to continue fanning the Boss. “I just arrived in Lagos tonight. I’ve only been in the city for three hours.” He tried to hold back the sob that gurgled up in his throat.  “A thug stole my bag and I called out for help. The crowd turned on me, as if I were the thief. They started beating and kicking me. I thought they were going to lynch me right there in the street! Then the police arrived, and I hoped they would help, but instead they brought me here.”

A roar of laughter erupted from the other inmates.

“You thought the police would help you?” a man cracked. “Boy, you are either really stupid or downright crazy!”

“This is Lagos!” a group of men yelled in unison.

The Boss let out a chuckle. “Teacher,” he said calmly, “as you will often hear, ‘This is Lagos’ means ‘Welcome to Lagos’. So, someone stole your bag?”

“Yes Boss, and then people accused me of stealing it. How can I steal my own bag?” Thomas felt the tears welling up in his eyes. He did not want to cry in front of all these tough-looking men, but he was overwhelmed with anger, fear, and frustration. “This is all so unfair,” he finally muttered.

“What was that?” the Boss asked. “I couldn’t hear you.”

Thomas raised his head. “I said, this is all so unfair.”

The Boss shook his head, then pulled himself out of his chair and passed his cigarette to another inmate. “Guess what? Life is unfair. I can’t believe you haven’t learned that by now. And life in Lagos is more unfair than life itself, Teacher… or whatever your name is.”

“Thomas.”

The Boss stretched his sweaty arms up over his head, and for the first time Thomas got a good look at the size of the man he had been fanning. He was close to seven feet tall, barrel-chested and iron-muscled, with pitch-black skin. His bull neck and big blazing eyes made him look very strange, almost unreal. Thomas had never seen a man so huge. He wished the Boss would sit back down.

“Abu,” the Boss called to another man, “did you think life was fair when your landlord ran off with your wife and framed you to be arrested.”

Abu, a lanky, long-legged man with small sunken eyes, was sitting against the wall in the corner. “Let me think for a moment,” he joked. “Ah…no, Boss, I didn’t.”

The Boss gestured toward the man who was now smoking his cigarette. “Thomas, this is Emeka. He has a Master’s degree in Philosophy, but after many years of searching for a job he became a commercial motorcyclist. He used to ferry passengers around the Oshodi area until a rich man hit him from behind and got him arrested.”

Emeka nodded.

“Hey, Emeka,” the Boss asked, “did you think life was fair when that happened?”

Emeka took a drag from the cigarette, and shook his head in disgust.

The Boss lit another cigarette as he walked across the cell and pointed toward a man who was lying on the floor. “Thomas, this is Chinedu.”

Thomas cautiously nodded at the man, but Chinedu was staring at the ceiling.

“Chinedu,” the Boss enquired, “did you think life was fair when you were thrown out of your job after blowing the whistle on your crooked employer?”

Chinedu did not bother to answer.

“No, sir!” the Boss bellowed. “Life is not fair. It wasn’t fair yesterday, it isn’t fair today, and it will not be fair tomorrow. Chances are it won’t be fair anytime this century or even in the twenty-second century for that matter.”

The statement was greeted with a chorus of unintelligible grunts and disgusted snorts.

“And is there anything any of us can do about that?” the Boss asked the crowd.

The men were all in agreement.

“No.”

“No way.”

“Don’t think so.”

“Hell, no.”

The Boss nodded. “No, there isn’t, and if you ask me that’s not fair either.”

Thomas lowered his head. He was aware of life’s lack of fairness, just like everybody else. All he had really wanted to do was vent his frustration, but he realised that in this particular environment, sympathy was in short supply.

“To hell with all this depressing stuff!” the Boss scoffed. “Let’s have some fun, boys!”

“Fun?” a man remarked with a sarcastic laugh. “In here?”

“Sure,” the Boss responded, “why not?” He held up his hand to grab the attention of the inmates. “Okay, boys,” he called out, “who will it be in the English Premier League — Chelsea or Man-U?”

“Chelsea!” one man cheered.

“Chelsea all the way!” another confirmed.

“Go, Chelsea! Up Man-U!”

“Man-U bites! Chelsea is the team!”

“Kill Man-U and make it hurt!”

The Boss’s hefty hand cut through the air, bringing the boisterous room to complete silence. “Are you aware that your teams send scouts all over the world to buy up the very best players they can find?”

The question was met with a series of shrugs and nods from the men.

“That’s right,” the Boss continued. “Chelsea and Man-U are rich teams with plenty of cash to snatch up all the best footballers. Even so, they compete in the same league as Derby County, which is one of the poorest teams in the sport. Derby can’t afford to put together a team full of Beckhams, yet they are constantly criticised for losing all of their encounters with these rich, powerhouse clubs.” He turned to Thomas. “You, my friend, are the Derby County of teachers. Did you know that?”

Thomas waited for an explanation.

“Yes, sir,” the Boss went on. “You may be a smart man Thomas, and you may also be a very hard worker, but what power do you possess?”

Thomas bit his lip so intensely that it almost started bleeding again.

“Considering the fact that you are standing in this cell at this particular moment,” the Boss said, “I would guess that you have absolutely no power whatsoever. You say you want to find a job, one that pays well I presume. Guess what, Thomas. You will be competing for what few jobs there are with the sons and daughters of wealthy and powerful men. These people have attended the finest schools and universities throughout the world. They may not be as smart as you are, and they are probably not nearly as hard-working as you are. That doesn’t matter though, because they don’t have to be. Their parents are the Chelseas and the Man-Us of the business world, and as such, they can always buy their offspring whatever they want. And that includes a prestigious banking job or a teaching position at a fancy private school. If they want it, they just pull out their cheque books and make it theirs.”

Who is this guy? Thomas wondered. Not your ordinary thug. Too clever. Too tapped in.

The Boss took a long drag of his cigarette and blew a perfect smoke ring. Thomas watched the circle float across the cell until it dissolved into the foul, musty air. Foul as my future, Thomas thought, if this guy’s right.

But Thomas would never give up so easily. He was convinced that, if someone would simply afford him the opportunity, he could eventually build up a successful career that would bring him great satisfaction, and enough money to let him to take care of his family back in Moso.

Throughout his youth, his parents had worked hard to maintain a stable home for Thomas and his sister Rita. Thomas’s father was a primary school teacher, and he had taught Thomas the value of sharing his knowledge and talents with others. His mum was a small goods trader, and through her tenacity she taught Thomas that success often entails risk, and that even the worst setbacks could be overcome with perseverance. Even so, the money his parents earned was not always enough to feed the family three good meals a day.

Thomas spent much of his youth studying hard, hoping to develop the skills and knowledge that would pull his family out of poverty. His grades in secondary school were in the top echelon, and he received a scholarship to attend Obafemi Awolowo University in Ife. He loved to study people, so he opted to read Sociology.

Although tuition was covered, other expenses were not, and Thomas worked hard during his holidays to make sure he had enough cash to continue his schooling. As a student, he had loved writing, and he had a regular column entitled The Analyst in the students’ union weekly magazine. He also discovered that he had a gift for helping others comprehend the course material, and with the encouragement of his classmates and lecturers, he pursued a career in teaching. His father was very proud that Thomas had chosen to follow his professional path.

But public-school teachers were not very well-compensated and Thomas soon discovered that he would not be able to boost his family above the poverty line if he continued teaching in Ife. To make more money, he would have to pursue gainful employment in the big city of Lagos. He knew, however, that Lagos was not waiting with a vast array of employment opportunities. He had heard the same things about the city from people back in Moso as he was now hearing from the Boss.

Still, Thomas had never imagined that he would find himself locked in a cell fanning a seven-foot-tall behemoth with a newspaper.

“So, Teacher,” the Boss asked knowingly, “do you still think life is fair?”

Thomas blew out a disgusted sigh. “No, sir.”

The corner of the Boss’s mouth curled up in a satisfied smile. “You now call me ‘sir’? That’s very good. I like that. Perhaps you’re learning.”

The Boss folded his arms across his chest. “Well Thomas, perhaps we will meet again in the world outside this dingy cell.” He took a last drag of his cigarette, dropped the butt on the floor, and crushed the stub with his bare heel. “Believe it or not,” he added, “this is actually a very small world.”

Thomas nodded. “I am ready to believe almost anything at this point, sir,” he replied.

The Boss let out an appreciative laugh. “My name is Kehinde Ibrahim,” he introduced himself pleasantly.

For the first time since he had arrived in Lagos, Thomas actually found himself smiling. “It is very nice to finally meet you, Mr. Ibrahim,” he said. “Although I would have preferred it to have happened outside this cell.”

“Ha!” the Boss guffawed. “I know what you mean. You may spare the formalities now. The rest of the world calls me Kenny. I’m here in this lovely facility because I am the victim of a wicked woman.”

“Your wife?” Thomas ventured.

“My father’s wife,” Kenny corrected. “I mean, his new wife.”

“What …”

Their conversation was interrupted by the high-pitched squealing sound of the green cell door opening. Two stern-looking police officers stood in the doorway. The short one had a sadistic sneer on his face, while the tall one looked straight ahead with cold, steely eyes. He held a piece of paper in his hand. His harsh glare carefully scanned the cell. All the inmates remained perfectly still. Some appeared to be holding their breath. For Thomas, the silence was maddening.

“What’s going on?” he whispered to Kenny.

With a very small shake of the head, Kenny indicated that Thomas should neither move nor speak. The big man, though, did not look worried.

The tall officer referred to his paper and loudly read off three names. “What do you want?” one of the named men asked nervously.

“Let’s go,” the shorter officer ordered.

The three men huddled in the corner, none of them prepared to take the first step.

“Now!” the tall officer shouted.

The men looked at one another and shuffled toward the door. Thomas noticed the dread on their faces. He thought one of the men might have been fighting back tears. He glanced at Kenny, hoping for an explanation. Kenny remained calmly on his throne like an all-knowing Buddha.

The cell door was slammed shut. Thomas heard the officers’ boots pounding down the corridor, but not a whisper from the bare feet of their prisoners.

Once they could no longer hear the footsteps, the men in the cell blew out a collective sigh of relief. They wiped their brows, shook their arms loose, and settled back as if nothing had happened.

A moment later, several gunshots rang down the corridor. Thomas’s eyes widened. He spun toward Kenny, who scratched his ear and lit another cigarette as if nothing extraordinary had happened.

“Did the police just shoot those men?” Thomas gasped.

Kenny yawned. “Those men got on a city bus and robbed the passengers at gunpoint last night,” he explained nonchalantly. “They fired some shots. I heard that a child was struck, but I don’t know if she died. What you just heard was inevitable.”

Thomas stood against the wall and then slumped to the floor. How can they be sure they’re guilty? he wondered, thinking of the brutal experience that had landed him here. He buried his head in his sore, aching hands and tried to hide his sobs. The other inmates chatted or went back to sleep, apparently used to the sudden execution of suspected criminals.

Thomas thought of all the hopes that had brought him to Lagos, and their painful disintegration in a matter of minutes.

He heard someone move and peered from behind his hands. A man sleeping in little more than rags was rolling over. Still worried, Thomas scanned the cell, closing his eyes only when he spotted Kenny staring back at him.