Two for One Dozen
Backdrop: In October 2020, the hashtag “#EndSARS” trended globally as thousands of young Nigerians flooded the streets in protest of police brutality, demanding that the injustices of the Nigeria Police subunit, Special Anti-Robbery Squad (SARS) be brought to book. Though established in the 1990s to curb the rise of robbery and banditry in the Nigerian city of Lagos, SARS operatives had become infamous nationwide for the forceful harassment, covert torture, and cold-blooded murder of young Nigerians. Despite evidence provided by a 2016 Amnesty International report (Titled Nigeria: ‘You have signed your death warrant’ : Torture and other ill treatment in the Special Anti-Robbery Squad) about the unit’s unchecked brutality and the corroboration of several victims and their family members, significant police reforms were scarcely initiated by the Nigerian government. Widespread discontent and frustration with the status quo ultimately fuelled the October 2020 demonstrations.
My aim with this piece was to leverage storytelling to humanize and immortalize the scathing experience of SARS victims and the engulfing pain and despair experienced by their loves ones, a reality which is very easily forgotten when we simply quote the statistics of casualties. Please note that this story is entirely fictional. Still, it was difficult to write- it is difficult to grapple with loss when one contemplates the cold facts that lives have been inevitably lost. It is my prayer that surviving victims and their family members (alongside the family members of the deceased) can find the fortitude to bear their losses, the grace to forgive, and the strength to live.
Present Day (Friday, October 2, 2020)
The Davies-Ajao Residence, Oluyole, Ibadan
Ade and Bose had called Mrs Davies-Ajao. She had consented to grant them an interview by 9am. But they have been sitting in her living room for over two hours to no avail. Now that they have met her, they wonder about her sanity. Ade nudges Bose that she had been perfectly coherent when he spoke to her on the phone.
They look around again. The cushions are threadbare. The bookshelf is freckled with dust, minute grains of chipped wood piled by its corner, a quintessential sign of termite infestation. There are disparate pill bottles on the dining table. Amitriptyline. Benzhexol. Diazepam. A Cofex® syrup bottle.
To douse the tension, Ade reassures Mrs Davies-Ajao that she can confide in them. They are investigative journalists. They want to know the truth about what happened, especially as fresh evidence about police brutality in the country resurfaces.
Completely mute, Mrs Davies-Ajao clutches even more tightly to the antiquated pink Barbie-themed school bag in her embrace as she stares into a picture frame on the wall. In it is a young man wearing a graduation gown. He is a spitting image of her.
***
12 years before (Friday, October 3, 2008)
12:30pm
“Tomiwa, please, you will help me go pick Tinuade from school. Her school closes by 1pm today.”
“Mummy, you’re just using my services free of charge. You should pay me for child care.”
His mother laughs.
“Just go and pick my daughter from her school. And come back in time o. Don’t buy her any goody goody from that kiosk. She is already eating too much sugar. I fear she will soon have jẹ̀dí jẹ̀dí .”
“Mummy, you worry a lot. Tinuade will be alright.”
“You know it is just two of you I have, since your father passed. A mother always worries about her babies.”
“Which baby? A grown man like me? Mummy, I just graduated from the University. Before you close your eyes and open them, I will have finished NYSC and started my own printing business as I’ve always dreamed. In fact, before you know it, you will be accompanying me to ask a lovely damsel’s hand in marriage. I kid you not,” Tomiwa replies, laughing.
“Oh I see. And that “lovely damsel” is your codename for Lolade, yes? I saw you two the other day. You should have seen yourself, grinning ear to ear like a little boy,” His mother replies, a sly grin on her face.
“Mummy, so you’ve been spying on me, abi” a blushing Tomiwa replies.
“Espionage is not one of my superpowers my boy. Just go get Tinuade for me,” she replies laughing.
***
1:30pm
“Hey you. Yes you. Stop there. Officer, seize him. He looks like one of them.”
“Officers, please, what is going on?” A flustered Tomiwa asks.
“My friend, would you shut that your dirty mouth? How dare you talk to us like that? Do you know who we are? Stupid Nigerian youths with no respect for constituted authority. If you try any rubbish, I go just waste you. Go and ask your mates. You don’t mess with SARS. Bombastic element!” the officer retaliates.
“Officer, leave him. I will handle him,” the senior officer replies and faces Tomiwa.
“You think we don’t know criminals like you. Let me see the phone in your hand. How can you afford this type of phone at your age? You this bloody 419-er!”
“Sir, I’m not a criminal. I just went to pick my sister from school. I’m a graduate, aswear. The phone was a graduation gift from my mother. I’m not a criminal. God knows I’m innocent. Please,” Tomiwa replies, getting agitated, especially as Tinuade begins to cry.
“Officer, off the canvas from his leg. Carrying stolen phone, wearing stolen canvas. Confiscate them!”
“Please, I’m not a criminal”, he explains but his voice begins to trail off as the officer punches him ferociously. He is immobilized on the ground as the officer kicks him repeatedly in the stomach.
His pleas are muffled by the blood oozing from his mouth and nostrils as he is further pummelled with jackboots.
“Officer, don’t even waste your energy on him anymore. We have better things to do. I know people like him. They will continue to lie to their grave. Finish him!”
Upon hearing the barrage of gunshots, the nearby pedestrians begin to run.
An unconscious Tomiwa lies on the blood-stained pavement flanked by a pink Barbie-themed school bag. Tinuade, whose bag it is, is nowhere in sight.
***
4pm
“Ìkúnlẹ̀ abiyamọ ò!”
“Young life just wasted, like that. His future, gone.”
“Ah. My God. What kind of world is this? What kind of country is this? What of his mother?”
“Him mother don faint. She faint immediately she see him body.”
“Na SARS shoot the boy.”
“Yes. I hear say them talk say him dey lie, that he be criminal,” they whisper in hushed tones.
***
5pm
A reporter comes to ask if anyone will like to provide a veritable eyewitness report. A middle-aged pregnant woman answers affirmative.
“I was there. He was about to cross the road to the other end of Mokola roundabout when they accosted him, after which a minor argument ensued. I could overhear the argument as I haggled with my fruit seller.”
“And nobody could do anything?”
“Honestly, I just thought they would leave him if he gave them money. You know, their usual Friday cash for weekend fàájì.”
“So how then did it escalate?”
“All I remember is there were multiple gunshots and everything just became crazy. My fruit seller literally toppled me over as she started to run. I’m just thankful to God I didn’t lose my baby because I cannot believe how I survived today. I need some rest now, as you can see” she replies, pointing to her bump.
“So if I am correct, you’re saying SARS operatives shot him?”
“Yes. I can confirm is that they shot him and sped off in their van. It was them. They even attested to it themselves, that they could waste him. Sadly, they did.”
“People say he was with a girl when this fracas began, his sister.”
“Yes I remember there was a school girl with him. She looked 6 or 7.”
“Do you by any chance know where the young girl is now?”
“No, I’m sorry. We only saw her school bag beside his body and brought it here. Please, I’m just a Good Samaritan like the others. We just rushed him here to see if we could help him, if he could be resuscitated. It is such a sad loss but I have to go home now. And please, I beg you, I don’t want my name in the press. I just want the truth to be known so justice can be served for this innocent young man. Please keep my name anonymous. Thank you.”
***
6pm
Tomiwa has been confirmed DOA for several hours now. But before his corpse will be released out of the hospital, the family representative must pay the mounting bills. There is the overhead service charge. The mortuary fee. Then the emergency care fee for Mama Tomiwa as well.
A quick, solemn burial has been planned. This is not the sort of death a party is thrown for. This is an ọ̀fọ̀, a colossal loss. The child should outlive the mother. Not the other way.
Tinuade’s disappearance has been reported to the police. There is still no news regarding her whereabouts.
***
Present Day (Friday, October 2, 2020)
Mrs Davies-Ajao has said nothing to Ade and Bose for nearly four hours now. They politely explain that they will have to leave soon; they understand that it is a difficult experience for her to rehash and they want to spare her of any further trauma.
Ade is already turning the door knob when she coughs. He turns back. Mrs Davies-Ajao has begun to speak. Her voice is hoarse; her coherent elocution is in sharp contrast to her dishevelled appearance.
“The Yoruba say that it is more relieving to have a dead child than a missing one. Perhaps the respite is due to the finality of death. You know that door is closed. You grieve all the same, but you know it is closed. But for the missing child, you are forever torn between hope and despondency. Is she alive or dead? Is she safe or in danger? You do not know, and that haunts you ceaselessly. It tortures you to hell and back. So then, I ask you, what more is left to say, if I have had to grapple with these two realities for a dozen years now?”
Ade checks the time on his watch by reflex. He does this whenever he turns on his recorder to record an interview. It is 1pm.
