There was only one way out of the viewing centre and it was clear to me that I wouldn’t be allowed to go through it. At the exit stood three brawny men, all dressed in camouflage. The first had three large scars on his face. The scars must have been sustained while on war missions, I guessed. Paying close attention to every movement in the hall, he manned the gun as though he was ready to shoot anyone who bid to move out of the place. The other two were his underlings. I noticed the way they thundered ‘yes sir!’ in response to any command he gave.
I stood there, at the corner of the hall, overwhelmed with fear. I sunk my already sweaty hands, into the pockets of my black distressed jeans. Beads of sweat ran down from my head to other parts of my body. I shouldn’t have come to this place, I thought at once. Nene had told me not to come but I hadn’t listened to her. I wanted to see Tottenham play. I wanted to see Son Heung-min play a through pass to Harry Kane. I wanted to hear the chants of “Hurricane!” when he chipped the ball into the goalpost. The feeling I experienced watching Tottenham play was electrifying.
It was crystal clear none of the soldiers were willing to listen to what anyone had to say. A man who seemed to be in his sixties had approached them. He dawdled to the exit, greeted the soldier with scars on his face and they both started mumbling.
“But my son look at me. Consider my age. I cannot do something like that,” the man explained.
“Oga, I am not your son” replied the soldier bristly. “And, concerning this issue, you are all suspects. No one would leave until our vans arrive. You are all going with us.”
Going with them? A shiver ran down my spines. How would Mama react when she found out that I was taken to the army cell? “Aboy has killed me!” she would wail. She would run to Uncle Joe’s house to divulge the situation. She would ask him to lend her some money to bail me out. He wouldn’t budge. Of course, he had never liked me and I could tell. He thought me rude and impertinent.
The young man next to me was still sitting and watching the game. He acted like he had nothing to lose. With his left leg crossed over his right, he sat relaxingly on a cyan-coloured plastic chair. On his right hand was a bottle of Fanta which he took several sips from. His lower lip would go down, then his chins up, letting out a smile, whenever he felt Tottenham was playing the game well.
“Oga, are you aware of what is happening?” I asked. “Dem wan pack everybody oh. You come balance like this?”
“Wetin concern me?” he retorted as he faced me squarely. “Shey I do anything? No be me and you sidon here since?”
“I know but, na everybody dem wan carry oh. They say we be suspects.”
“Abobi, die it! Sidon watch match. Dem no fit do anything.”
While we were still conversing, one of the soldiers walked in briskly and stood in front of us. He was a clean bald. From his unusually huge ears hung a pair of dark sunglasses hiding his eyes from us. There were lots of lines on this face. These lines were not scars, they were tribal marks. These were the kind of marks I frequently saw on the faces of the young men who sold groceries at Bonny Island. One of them had told me that the marks were peculiar to people from Yola.
“Get up from that chair,” the soldier instructed the young man.
“Awa, disembark!” replied the man bluntly. “I do you anything? I know my right! You no fit just say make I stand up.”
For a moment, I wondered if the young man realized where he was—Nigeria, of all places. I wondered if he realised that he was also in Port Harcourt, and standing before him, was a soldier. A soldier who could beat him blue and black without anyone batting an eyelid. A soldier who could drag him away and no one would bother to ask what his offence was, or where he was being taken to.
Just as I expected, the soldier descended heavily on him. I moved away quickly just like every other person did. We all moved towards the wall. A lot of persons mumbled their complaints but no one was bold enough to speak up. It took the intervention of the other soldiers before the young man was granted relief.
Moments later came the blaring of sirens. The vans which would convey us to the barracks had arrived. Different thoughts ran through my mind. I had to get away from the place. I couldn’t afford to board any of those vans. It would mean my going into torture for a crime I knew nothing about. Where would Mama get the money to bail me if I was taken to the barracks? Who would believe this was my first time of coming to the viewing centre?
“Oya, all of you, line up!” the soldier with scars commanded us.
Having witnessed what had just happened to the man who challenged the soldier, we quickly got in line.
“Hands up! Everybody, hands up!” We followed this directive.
“Now, see those vans parked there? You will all walk slowly to the back and climb inside. Understood?”
“Yes sir!” we all chorused.
“Now, move!”
The line moved slowly and, in some minutes, I was out of the hall. I looked around and saw lots of people staring at us from afar. There were three big vans parked across the road. Each had two soldiers assigned to it. I noticed how the soldiers had their eyes riveted on those in front. They paid no attention to those behind and the other three soldiers were still inside the hall.
A thought quickly came to mind. A thought to run away. This thought dominated my mind as the line moved slowly. I kept on monitoring the soldiers as I considered my chances of getting away. When I thought the time was right, slowly, I broke away from the line and took on my heels.
“Officer, person don cutout oh!” I heard someone say as I blazed away.
“Hey! Stop there!” one of the soldiers commanded.
On hearing this, I ran as though I was an athlete competing at the Olympics and I was trying to break Bolt’s record. With each foot hitting the ground, I gained more momentum. I could still hear the soldier’s repeated orders to stop but, I didn’t listen. I ran with all the energy I could muster. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before I realized it was a bad idea. Breaking away was a bad idea. Not stopping when I was asked to, was even worse.
The next I heard was the sound of gunshots. On hearing these, I panicked. I panicked so much that I fell to the ground. The force with which I hit the ground was massive and when I tried getting back up, I couldn’t. I experienced a stinging sensation in my knee. My chest ached and I couldn’t feel my right arm. When I looked up, I was circumscribed by dust. I could barely see a thing.
After the particles in the air had settled, I saw chaos. People ran helter-skelter. They all ran for their dear lives. I turned around to see if I could still attempt to get up and run. I saw four guns aimed at me as four soldiers approached slowly. These soldiers would shoot if I made any move. This was what the look on their faces suggested. I turned forward and out of dread, closed my eyes.
“Wake up! Wake up my friend!”
I was awakened by the slaps of a young man. With squinted eyes, I gazed at him. He moved around the room hitting everyone who was still asleep. For a moment, I thought I was at a boys’ scout camp. I thought this was one of the many camps I attended while I was a member of the boys’ scout. Anon, reality dawned on me. I was in an army cell.
I was doused so much the previous day that I fainted. The last memory I had was of four soldiers knocking, kicking and punching me, all at the same time. I had never experienced that much misery in my whole life. I had the impression that I was close to death. Contrite, I had pleaded with them. I begged for mercy. But my pleas were to no avail. With every appeal for a pardon, my suffering worsened. It seemed as though my petitions infuriated the soldiers.
I sat up right as I looked all over the cell. Every part of my body ached. Bruises were all over my skin. I recognized almost everyone in the cell. Most of them were in the viewing centre with me the previous day. I could see pity in their eyes as they took glances at me. All our clothing had been taken away and we were left with nothing but undershorts.
“Smalli, sorry, you hear?” one of the guys said as he stared at me pitifully.
I nodded in acceptance.
“But why you con tuama na?” he continued “You no suppose run. Just thank God sey dem no knack you shot.”
Before I could say a word, I heard another voice reply him from behind.
“Why him no go tuama?” the voice countered “The guy get ododo. Na dis one wey go caprison say the smalli don run. Him suppose kolet wotoporiously from all man.”
Immediately, I turned around to see who it was that gave me away. It was a lad who seemed my age. I was filled with fury the instant I saw him. After a quick glimpse around the cell to see if I could find an effective weapon, which I could not, I charged towards him. The moment I got up, I fell down with a thud that echoed in my mind for many days and night. It was at that point I realized I had a broken leg, and I shrieked in agony.
Many were quick to offer help as they helped me get back to my sitting position. With tears in my eyes, I cussed at the chap. I told him how he was the reason I was experiencing great pain. I geared my anger at him, calculated words which I was sure were going to attack his conscience. I shifted the moral blame of my actions to him. He kept mute. He stared into the ground with gloom. I could tell he already regretted his deed.
At noon, we were all interrogated separately; one person after the other. While I awaited my turn, I wondered why neither Mama nor Nene had come looking for me. None of us in the cell had had a visitor yet. It was unusual. I was sure Mama would not sleep without knowing my whereabouts. Nene should have taken her to the viewing centre. Someone must have told them what had befallen everyone at the viewing centre.
When my turn came, I was carried into a room. The room contained a large table which looked antique. Two chairs, which were on either side of the table, and a long bench positioned close to the window. A young soldier sat on one of the chairs. He seemed non-combatant. With a pen in his right hand, he scribbled some letters on a big brown book. The room also contained two men-at-arms. The only source of light in the room was a white florescent bulb which hung loosely from the ceiling, as though it was going to drop to the ground any minute.
“Keep him there,” the man said to the guys transporting me as he pointed to the vacant chair.
With his eyes fixed on the big brown book as he continued writing, the soldier demanded my name.
“Chukwudi Olumide,” I said.
“Go outside and bring his people,” said the soldier to one of the men-at-arms. “Ask if anyone has come for Chukwudi Olumide”.
In some minutes, Mama, Nene and Uncle Joe were seated in the room. I was surprised to see Uncle Joe. He was the last person I had expected to be here. He stared at me and shook his head in aversion. Mama and Nene had been whimpering since the moment they saw me. Mama’s eyes were already swollen by now. It was obvious she had been in tears for a long time.
“Is this your son?” the soldier asked Mama as he pointed towards me.
“Yes sir. Aboy Nwa m.” Mama replied amidst tears.
“Okay.” the soldier continued. “I am sad to inform you that your son here, is a kidnapper.”
“Kidna-what?” I interrupted.
“Will you keep quiet!” said the soldier as he pointed at me.
“Madam, as I was saying before, your son here is a kidnapper. He’s a member of a gang called Boskama OGs.”
“Oga…” Mama tried to speak.
“Wait, let me finish.” said the soldier. “They have their base in Borokiri, at a viewing centre which they collectively own.”
“Sir, there must be a mistake somewhere.” Uncle Joe finally spoke. The man turned towards his direction and paid attention.
“This boy here, with his mother and his sister, just moved into Port Harcourt three days ago.”
With a puzzled look on his face, the soldier looked at me then, he returned his eyes to Uncle Joe.
“He’s my Nephew. Although he is very stubborn, I am very sure he cannot be involved in such a crime.”
“Young man, what were you doing at the viewing centre?” the soldier said as he turned to me.
“Sir, I only went there to see a football match between Tottenham and Westham,” I replied. “I have no idea of what you just spoke about sir. I only went there because it was the first viewing centre I could find.”
“Are you sure you are not telling lies?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then, why did you run?”
“Sir, I was afraid.”
“And your best option was to run?” he asked.
I gave no reply.
“Umar, bring me that man they call Stone”, he directed one of the other soldiers in the room.
After sometime, a man was brought in. His hands were cuffed. He smiled the moment he entered. He looked stout and had bushy hair. With his thick lips—lips blackened from marijuana—he whistled twice.
“Will you stop that!” the soldier commanded.
“Senior man, no vex,” he said.
“Do you recognize this young man?” the soldier said as he pointed to me.
“Who be diswan?” Stone replied.
“Take a good look at him and tell me if you recognize him”
“Manchi, wida you?” Stone said as he looked at me assiduously.
“Do you recognize him?” the soldier was becoming impatient.
“Senior man, you dey mount me edge to edge. I swear I neva see this one for my life. Him face no show.”
“Please take him away,” the soldier directed.
After Stone had been escorted out of the room, the soldier scribbled more letters into the big brown book. He inquired after my name again as he continued writing. After a long moment of scribbling things into his journal, he finally spoke.
“Sir, Madam, we are sorry for any inconveniences we might have caused. We sincerely apologize.”
“Thank you sir,” was all Mama could say.
I wondered what she was thanking him for. Was it for the beating I had received? Was it for my broken leg? Or my bruised skin? Maybe it was because I was about to be released after being detained for committing no crime.
“You can go with your son, ma.” said the soldier as he returned my clothes.
Mama, Uncle Joe and Nene helped me up as we made our way through the barracks.
Meet Uluata Emmanuel Kalu, a driven Mechanical Engineering student at the University of Nigeria Nsukka with a hidden passion for storytelling. Though his focus is on his engineering studies, Kalu’s love for writing has always been a constant in his life. He enjoys creating compelling characters and complex storylines that keep readers engaged from beginning to end. Kalu is also interested in exploring social issues and themes related to his Nigerian upbringing in his writing. He is excited to share his work with a wider audience and hopes to inspire others to pursue their creative passions alongside their academic pursuits.