Reporters: Hello Kunle, sorry about your horrific experience. We have heard bits and pieces of it. Sincerely, we hate to do this but we want the world to hear your story, we want to challenge the Police and the Government with your story. Do you think you are strong enough to share your story with us?
Kunle:
Let me try.
My mother was no seer but that day she had a premonition. She sensed the evil and tried to stop me from going out to trade on that fateful day. She even begged me.
It was the 9th day of the 11th month, the year was 2001. I had just prepared my goods and was ready to leave home when she called me by my pet name Bobo mi; and the words that followed were…please my son suspend your trade today and rest, please spend the day with me and your sister and later in the day, there is a story I would like to share with you and Funke. Please my son, I beg of you. I had a bad dream that someone was in prison.
Being the bread winner of the family, I knew what the consequences would be if I missed sales for a day; so I ignored her pleas and proceeded towards the city centre to sell my locally made soap (African Black Soap), made mainly from natural palm tree leaves, plantain and cocoa pods.
I was only 14 years of age yet I was the bread winner. I and my 12 years old sister- Funke was all she had in this world.
While I am out in the city centre striving to eke out a living for the family, Funke looked after our mother who was plagued with cancer and bedridden. When Funke is not attending to her she made brooms and occassional, baskets from the palm fronts I gathered.
I couldn’t afford to miss a day because that means we would go hungry the following day and be unable to pay the local medicine man that brings herbs for our mother.
That was our daily routine and education wasn’t part of it, not even when our father was alive. He died when I was 7. He fell from a palm tree, broke his spine and fractured his skull. He didn’t even make it to the hospital.
Though we were so poor, we were equally as rich as we could be because our parents never believed in begging, and they were always contempted with all they had. They worked hard all their lives despite the reward not being commensurate with their input.
Well, that was how we lived our lives, one day at a time, without the faintest idea of what the next day holds.
The Drastic Turn of Events
On that fateful day, it was just a few minutes past noon, I and another trader had just walked into the city centre with our goods and just as we were about to start approaching viable buyers, we were besieged by four strange uniform men, never seen in the city before. I am no psychologist but by looking into their eyes, I could see the darkness that lied within, as their faces were devoid of compassion and any form of pity and eventually, so was their hearts .
First they asked us for money and we told them we haven’t made any sales. The shortest amongst them who was very dark in complexion, with tribal marks on both sides of his face, running from underneath his eyes and ending just by the corners of his mouth quickly searched us. Not finding any money, they got angry and tossed our goods which were on our trays and gently balanced on our heads to the ground.
Immediately, with a firm grip, they held our weak clothing by the waist and pronounced to us that we were under arrest for hawking in the city centre.
While they displayed their animalistic behaviours, tears rolled down my cheeks and my thoughts were occupied by the survival of my mother and little sister, not knowing what lied ahead. The only trade that kept me and my poor family going had just been destroyed, tossed away like waste and scattered all over the place. People watched but no one came to our rescue.
We were then dragged into their van and driven to a police station near the Federal Prison.
About 21 of us were arrested on that day and as night fell, many parents searched for their children and wondered why they weren’t back home. The news quickly filtered into many homes, and in no distant time the police station was filled with worried parents and guardians, all begging the police that they didn’t know that hawking was now prohibited in the city centre.
What followed next isn’t alien to our society and everyday life experiences. Parents, very poor parents were been asked to pay money before their children would be released to them. This wasn’t bribery or extortion, this was a clear case of being kidnapped and ransomed, only that this time the kidnappers were government officials; law enforcement officers, the Police. What a shame.
Many who couldn’t afford the unholy ransom demand begged and even negotiated but the Police had no conscience and so did not show sympathy. Money was all they wanted and the poor, this class of people in the society was their easiest and most gullible target.
Knowing that no one would come for me, I sat back and watched, crying my eyes out all the time, especially when a poor family I knew came for their child, but couldn’t offer me any help, as the police wouldn’t listen, not even to me, not even to the family of the other trader who tried to explain my predicament and begged them to at least show some pity for my brokenness and poor state.
In my entire life on earth, and on the harsh streets of my country as a trader, I have never seen a people so blind to conscience and reason like the Police all because of money.
The last family that begged on my behalf was even threatened to be locked up if they don’t leave.
Twenty five thousand naira (N25,000) or the boy remains here said one of the officers on duty, and after 72 hours, the cells will be decongested. They will be transferred to that building by the far right with fences almost touching the sky. The Federal Prison.
The family quietly left and on getting home, they narrated my ordeal to my poor little sister and my helpless mother who couldn’t do anything but sobbed and prayed, knocking on Heaven’s gate and hoping that God would answer that night. Unfortunately, I wasn’t released and at dawn, our mother had slipped into a coma.
My sister came the following day crying but was not allowed into the police station. She was asked to go and bring money that I had eaten their bread and beans. A female officer called her to the corner and told here to go and raise money. At least N10,000 (Ten thousand naira) and that she would help here talk to the other officers when she comes with the money.
Within her, she knew it wasn’t humanly possible considering her own trade – Broom making; but she had to try.
For about 48 hours, my little sister did not sleep, round the clock, she made brooms, and baskets in addition, from the palm fronts she could gather; and at first light, one of our neighbour’s daughters helped her out with the sales by taking them to the local market.
I am so sorry, the pain is too much and I can’t hold back the tears.
On the 3rd day, and with the little assistance she got from neighbours, she had a little over N7,000 (Seven thousand naira) and with the money in her hands, she rushed down to the police station and just as she was arriving, the van conveying us to the Federal Prison was leaving. She was about two minutes late to buying back my freedom. I watched her from the van feeling great pity for her as she looked haggard and tattered.
Not knowing that I have been transferred, she went to the female officer who promised to help. Lo and behold, the female officer took the money and asked her to go home and expect my return.
Around 4pm on the same day she dashed back to the station to complain that I still hadn't come home. That was when the female officer told her that she was late, and that I have been transferred to the Federal Prison.
She broke down, crying and sobbing, and just when she asked for a refund, she was beaten mercilessly and thrown out of the police station. My God, not even the Devil would do that to any man not to mention a child who was just 12 years old.
Funke returned home to meet the lifeless body of our mother, while I was on a round trip journey to Prison.
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Kunle, now seriously crying and sobbing, was given a break by the already heartbroken reporters who were capturing his story with teary eyes.
Disclaimer: This story is fiction sprinkled with both personal and televised real life experiences.
