The sour breath of sleep will not let the senses take in the smell of the Engine Room at dawn. Only the ears are open to a growing range of anal blasts, the stress of the man squatting in the throes of easing himself, the irate spill of urine, and the eventual flush of water.
In the rest of the room, there is a medley of snores, the drone of mosquitoes, and the distant call of the muezzin to prayer. The cell is still a quiet room of sleeping inmates lying under the hood of makeshift mosquito nets, huddled together like fishing nets draped over their catch in the depth of dark waters, or like tents in a crowded fishing outpost.
Scattered amongst the nine double bunker beds is a bewildering clutter of household items. The dim light from the low battery rechargeable lamp is bright enough to define the outlines of sundry crockery — pots, pans, plates, kettles, all in various states of unwashed defilement from last night’s meal.
The plastic chairs, each carrying the identity of Freedom Cell, are stacked atop each other, waiting for their colours to become discernible again with the breaking of day. Two blue drums stand like giant guards holding the night’s share of water.
The buckets, in varying stages of emptiness, line the highway of the cell till they form, beyond the creaky half-door to the toilet, a tall heap, each paint bucket dunked into the empty socket of the other so that they achieved, in profile, a tall serrated height of slim, droopy metal handles. They will be the first accessories to leave the room when the cell door grates open for the Water Gang to compete for the day’s supply of water.
In the silent dark of the prison yard, the first clap of hands is awaited to signal the break of a brand new day that brings the inmates closer to freedom. The silence of dawn begins to recede gradually as a radio is switched on and music sallies forth from an FM station.
The volume is low enough for me to hear the exertions of Michael, the first of the sleepers to wake up this morning. His breathing becomes heavy and his bones creak as he exercises with the weight lift. In the bed next to me, on the upper deck, the first whisper of prayer breaks out. Apostle Paul is making his early supplications before fellowship.
More shuffling feet, more groans, more farting from the toilet, a more determined jet of urine is sprayed into the bowl, just before the first flurry of hand claps sound outside. MC’s unfailing cascade of prayers gush from his lips, sprinkled with calls on the name of Jesus.
The clap of hands take on a present force as it explodes more surely in the cell, and the sleepers begin to stir awake. The animation takes on a definite character when the voice of the Cell Pastor finally calls on everyone to come fully awake.
‘Put yourselves together’, says Apostle Paul in the gruff early morning voice that only sleep can induce. ‘Pull yourselves together. It’s another brand new day. A living dog is better than a dead lion. Come with me to II Chronicles. If the people will seek my face and turn away from their evil ways, then will I answer them, says the Lord. Is somebody with me this morning’?
‘Hallelujah’, says a still small voice.
Even as Bible pages begin to flip open, penitent fingers hurriedly reaching for the next verse, the next assurance, the next promise of freedom, a wild cheer was breaking from cell to cell. Desperate voices raised in praise and worship soar to lofty heights, and crash back into the fluid muscle of the morning song, like an ocean wave certain of the next crest in spite of every loop and splash of water.
Inside my cell, Abuja was up on his feet, his hands behind his back, his boxers holding his crotch as tight as the Chelsea T-shirt with his name branded on the back. He was one of the oldest inmates of the cell, and one of the first crop of 32 inmates to enter through the gates of Okaka penitentiary.
He had earned the name Abuja one surprising evening when his second in command was in the best of spirits. In his capacity as President of the most prestigious Special Cell, Abuja was also perhaps the most respected inmate in the entire prison yard.
Abuja never ceased to impress me with the wealth of worship songs and choruses in his kitty. They came without effort, one after the other, and each number was guaranteed to minister to the distressed soul. Only after Abuja had exhausted his string of solemn choruses, only then would Apostle Paul, the Cell Pastor, take over with the sermon for the day.
Abuja had surprised me on the first night I entered the cell. I was wearing a black short-sleeve caftan with a short brown button-line running from the neck to the chest. Just before I left my house that morning, I had put on a black hat to match.
On an impulse, I had gathered all the books I have ever written into a heap upon my lap, and posed for my first daughter to snap me into permanence. That photograph was to become perhaps the major campaign signpost for my release.
But that evening, as the door to the cell closed, and the warder drove home the bolt, turned the key in the huge padlock and walked away, I was quiet inside me. Abuja had offered me the only plastic chair with a backrest, which was evidently his throne, and told me to relax. There was a sustained banter between inmates, from bed to bed, and it all sounded so conspiratorial in my strange ears that I wondered what was coming next.
From the number of voices, I began to guess how many men were in that cell. Two voices stuck out from the lot. They were not Nigerian. They had the unmistakable drawl of Hindi, and I had no doubt that I would be passing the night under the same roof with two Indians for the first time in my life.
Everyone seemed to be poking jocular fun in their general direction, and I soon came to know them as Captain, the hairy elderly Indian who loved to move around in his pants, and Chandrashekar, the boyish, pint-sized Indian who spoke a quick smattering of English to the rest of us, and switched over to address his brother in Hindi almost in the same breath.
From the tone of each voice, I began to take a wild guess about the possible character trait of each inmate, and to wonder which of them would be my friend. I didn’t have long to wait. Someone soon cleared his throat behind me, and a young man casually walked in front of me. He wore a white pair of boxers that seemed to float about his laps, and nothing on top.
He might well be the youngest homeboy in the cell, I thought to myself, even though his shadow rose tall above him in the dim light of the room. He had a strident voice, and it did not take me long to find out that he had great regard for his office. He introduced himself as Lailo, second in command to Abuja.
‘Welcome to Cell 4’, he said with appropriate politeness. ‘In this cell, we have a government. We also have laws governing the cell. I am going to introduce everyone in this cell to you, and then I will read out the by-laws of the cell to you which, as you can see on that wall above the door, are clearly spelt out. They are 53 laws in all. I will tell you about the most important ones. In the morning, you can read the rest for yourself’.
I raised my eyes to look at three sheets of quarto-size exercise book pages held together by plaster, a blue scrawl running through them.
‘But first, tell us your name and why you are here. What is your crime’?
There was an attentive quiet in the entire cell, and there was no doubt that everyone was waiting to know me, even though some were already tucked under their nets. They would be faceless until tomorrow morning when I would get to meet them one on one.
‘My name is Pope Pen. I am here because of a book I wrote’.
‘What do you mean’? came the automatic reply.
‘Are you a journalist’?
‘Are they arresting every journalist’?
‘What kind of book is it that is bringing someone to a place like this’?
‘What did you say in the book’?
I couldn’t answer all the questions at once.
‘Well, let’s just put it this way. The court said I was liable for contempt over a libel suit brought against me by the complainant who happens to be the paramount ruler of my place. I didn’t show up in court until judgement was passed in the case, so they brought me here’.
‘Why didn’t you show up in court’?
‘Because I wasn’t notified’.
‘How long are you supposed to be here’?
‘I don’t know. They didn’t tell me’.
‘Sounds like an interesting story’, said Lailo, ‘but we will hear the rest of it later. Now, let me tell you about the by-laws of this cell. Before I do that, since you have entered here, you must drop two thousand naira first and foremost. That is compulsory. You must pay that one now. If you don’t have, someone will “borrow” you this night, then you pay back tomorrow.
‘That money will be used to buy drinks for everybody to drink now, including you. That is to tell you that you are welcome to this cell. No. 2. This is a Special Cell, and every member of this cell pays a special amount of N10,000 only, not now, but within a space of two weeks. But if you have it now, well, you can drop it.
‘Number three. No fighting in this cell. If you fight, you will fetch water for two weeks and pay a fine as stipulated by Abuja.
‘Number four. No sodomy in this cell. That is a crime in this prison. If anybody is caught with his dick too close to another man’s butt, there is a penalty for it. You will be made to run round the field five times in the morning, naked’.
This last piece of news came as a great relief to me. I had heard stories about sodomy being rampant in prisons, and I could simply not imagine that a fellow man would find my butt attractive.
‘Again, I must let you know that there is a roster for fetching water to fill the drums, another roster for cleaning the Engine Room, and another for sweeping the floor’.
At this point, Abuja cut in.
‘Wait. What did you say your name is’?
I repeated it.
‘That name sounds familiar. Where did I hear it before? Where are you from’?
‘Nembe’.
There was a slight pause, during which I could hear a great deal of hollering and a thunderous thud of stamping feet from the adjoining cells.
‘Well, because of your age and your swollen leg we will exempt you’, said Abuja.
‘Yes’, agreed the second in command. ‘In fact, anything you want, just tell me. I will do it for it. If you want cold water, I will pass it for you. If you want to bathe hot water, I will boil it for you. Anything you want, just let me know’.
I remember limping into the prison yard with a swollen left foot, but I was still wondering how old I looked even when I spoke again, clearing my throat.
‘Thank you very much for everything you have said so far. I will do my best to abide by the by-laws of the cell. I will pay the ten thousand naira you mentioned, but I don’t have it right now. I will also pay the N2,000. That’s all I have now. Here it is’.
Abuja cut in again. ‘Alright. That is your bed’, pointing to the top of a double-decker bed with a six-spring foam on it. ‘I have already cleared it for you. They will tie the mosquito net for you now. You must be very hungry. Go ahead and eat’.
And so saying, Abuja reached into the inner recesses of his own bed space, pulled out a brand new bed-sheet, tore it in equal halves before my bemused eyes, handed one part over for my bed to be dressed and began to dress his bed with the other half. I was touched by this gesture from a man I didn’t know, and I was eager to express my gratitude.
Lailo rounded up his welcome remarks with a respectful introduction of each inmate, titles and all, ending with the proprietor of Solo Supermarket, the shopkeeper in a corner of the cell who had all his wares in a few bags and cartons around him, and at the foot of his bed. I was to identify him the following day as a man possessing at least three different voices, each with tonal varieties of its own.
I couldn’t eat much. Everybody seemed to be watching my mouth. Besides, I had so much on my mind. I couldn’t even bring myself to undress before these strangers and take my evening bath. That night, before I turned in to sleep, I took one last look at a painting of Jesus Christ on the wall directly facing me, like a benevolent spirit draped in white, watching over my innocence.
