Welcome to Ikoyi Prisons (Part Two)
Monday
On Monday morning, I head to Eti-Osa Local Government office at Igbo Efun along Lekki-Epe expressway. It is before Chevron roundabout, close to the road leading to Alpha beach. I want to get my Lagos State Residents permit — one of the documents each surety must provide, along with a utility bill, Tax Clearance Certificate and Proof of Identification (Driver’s License, International Passport, National ID or Voter’s Card).
When I get to the gate, a man walks up to me, asking what I want. I tell him. He points to a guy standing at the entrance of the LG building and says I should speak with him. The guy tells me to make copies of my utility bill and ID, which I do at a shopping complex close to the LG secretariat. I bring the copies of the documents back to him, and he processes my finger prints, takes a picture of my face with the webcam on his laptop and asks for personal data. You know, the usual stuff — DOB, state of origin, etc.
The whole process takes less than an hour. I am expecting to be ‘taxed’ before I can get the permit, but surprisingly, I am not. He prints out the permit which is to serve as the temporary document until the permanent copy is ready, and gives it to me.
Once I get it, I make my way to Tinubu Magistrate Court. It is a colonial like building, sandwiched between Broad Street and Marina in Lagos Island. Stepping through the gate, I see lawyers sitting on benches and stools against the fence on the left. I discover they are basically ‘mobile’ lawyers looking to stand in for people who need to apply for bail.
Tinubu Magistrate Court is a one storey building with a U shaped bungalow at the back. There are 5 court rooms and a detention cell on the ground floor for accused persons. These are people who have been brought in from the police station or those brought from Ikoyi Prisons.
My brother’s bail conditions state that 2 sureties must be provided — 1 blood relative and 1 friend or acquaintance. I am hoping my brother’s manager will provide the other surety. There are friends I could have asked to do it, but who would have the time on such short notice to leave their job and come to court with me? I can’t think of anyone. And it seems unfair to put them in that position.
The manager is not here yet. He shows up around noon, almost 2 hours after I get there. He takes me to one of the lawyers who is sitting on a bench close to the court gate. She is the one they used during the bail hearing. The lawyer is wearing a black jacket that is at least 2 sizes too big, a black vest underneath it, white shirt and black pants. Her weave is badly done, and her face is a combination of black and yellow patches.
The lawyer says she will help us get sureties — for my brother and his colleague. The colleague’s uncle is around and will stand as the relative.
Today, I discover there are actually people who are professional sureties — I mean they do this for a living; basically waiting for a phone call from a lawyer who needs their services. Their fees depend on the bail requirements and seriousness of the case.
The lawyer makes a phone call, and about an hour later, 2 sureties show up — both about the same height, 5'5", 1 skinny with a moustache, wearing what used to be a white shirt, faded black trousers and shoes that have seen better days. The other is almost the direct opposite — bald and plumpy, clean shaven, wearing black pants and a stripped shirt. They are asking for ₦25,000 each, but we agree to pay ₦20,000 — half now and half after the bail has been granted.
The bail conditions did not state an employment letter as one of the documents required, but the sureties insist it is necessary. This means the bail application can’t be submitted today. However, the lawyer fills the application form and asks me to hold onto it until the next day.
I am naive for expecting I can conclude the entire bail application process and get my brother out in one day.
Tuesday
I get to the court around 10:00am and call the surety who says he is just approaching Oshodi and the delay is because of traffic. He gets there around 2:00pm. The uncle of my brother’s colleague has a discrepancy on his employment letter — the employer’s name on it is different from what is on his staff identification card. Because of this, he can’t submit the bail application. I tell the lawyer to proceed with submitting my brother’s. The lawyer has already been given money by my brother’s manager, but she is insisting I give her something. I give her ₦2,000. After this, she takes the document to the court clerks, drops it on their desk, and leaves me to my fate.
There are 2 clerks — a man and a woman. The man says I have to give him ₦20,000 before he passes the bail application to the prosecutor. He goes through the bail forms, notices the passport photograph of the other surety, and says he will not process it because he knows the surety is a paid surety. I start begging him to accept ₦10,000, that this is all I have, and that he should please process the other surety’s bail form as well. His colleague steps out while I am begging, and after she does, he tells me to give him the ₦10,000, but still insists on seeing the other surety.
I just want my brother to get out of prison as soon as possible and I don’t want any more delays, so I tell him I’ll give him extra cash if he can just fast-track the process. He pauses, thinking about it. Then says, “don’t let my colleague know you gave me ₦10,000.” He gives me ₦5,000 out of the money I gave him, and says, “when she comes back, say ₦5,000 is all you have and that you will bring the balance of ₦5,000 tomorrow.” I nod. The colleague comes back in, and I continue pleading. He acts like he is in deep thought, then tells me to give him the money. After collecting it, he says I should ensure I bring the balance the next day. He takes the file to the prosecutor and hands it over.
At the prosecutor’s office, one of the offices in the bungalow at the back, there are a lot of people. I decide to wait outside. After about 45 minutes most of them leave. I enter the office, greet everyone there and sit down to wait. Everyone leaves except me. I tell him who I am and why I am there. “Where do you live?” he asks. “Lekki,” I reply. He then says, “your money is ₦50,000.” I begin another round of begging. “Please, sir help me. All I have is ₦15,000.” The pleading continues for about an hour until he eventually accepts, and says I should come the next day.
I decide not to head home after leaving the court, and go see a friend in Surulere. On my home, I am overwhelmed with emotion and the stress of the last 3 days, and start crying. The stress just seems too much. And I can’t help thinking about my brother in prison. “Why? Why is this happening? He doesn’t deserve to be in that place.”
Wednesday
The prosecutor has a case in court so I can’t see him when I get there in the morning. I wait. He eventually finishes around 4:00pm. I hand over the money to him and he asks for my phone numbers, calling both to confirm that they are indeed mine and still active, and also asks for my address and directions on how to get there. “I will be at your place tomorrow to verify your address,” he says after getting the information. That is all he is to do — verify surety addresses and pass along the file to the magistrate.
Thursday
The prosecutor calls me around 9:00am. He got off at the wrong bus stop. I speak with the okada rider whose bike he is on, and guide him to my place. After checking out my house, he says I should give him money for transportation. I give him ₦1,000. “Please, sir is it possible for us to conclude the bail process today so my brother can get out?” I ask. “Yes,” he says. Apparently, he knows the other surety, so there’s no need to visit his house for verification.
I get to the court at 3:00pm. The prosecutor is around. We go to the clerks’ desk together, and he hands the file to the male clerk. In front of his female colleague, the clerk asks for the balance of ₦5,000, which he gives to the woman. She refuses to accept it at first, saying it’s too small. But he tells her to help me out. The woman seems suspicious, because after the man steps out, she asks me how much I gave him yesterday. I go along with the plan and say ₦5,000.
My brother’s file is passed on to the magistrate. The clerk calls me into the magistrate’s office and she interviews me — asking what relationship I have with the accused, what my responsibility is as a surety and so on. The other surety is interviewed after insisting I give him more money because the male clerk is insisting he settles him.
After the interview, my brother’s bail is granted.
The clerk gives me a document to give to the warden. When I see the warden, I hand it over to him, and this man insists that before he accepts the document from me, I must give him ₦10,000. After much pleading, he agrees to accept ₦6,000. I don’t have any more cash with me, so I go out to look for an ATM. I withdraw ₦8,000, and give him the amount we settled for. He leaves me and comes back a few minutes later with a brown envelope which he says I should take to the prison, and with instructions on who I should hand the envelope to and the person’s phone number. “Before your brother is released, you will have to give them ₦500,” he says.” You can choose not to give them the money and your brother will still be released, but they will keep you there for a long time.”
I get to the prison, and call the guy. When he comes out, I hand the letter over to him. “Wetin you get for me?” the man says. “Nah only ₦100 remain for my hand, abeg. I don spend all my money,” I reply and stretch out my hand to give it to him. He refuses to accept the money and takes me to where I will wait.
Waiting. An hour has passed, and I am told to come to a window close to the prison gate. There is a prison official sitting behind a desk close to the window. I spot my brother. The prison official asks who I have come for because there are several people there. I point to my brother, and the official says, “where your ₦500?” I hand it over to him. The gate is opened, and my brother is let out. I hug him.
