I saw a fight at very close quarters in a cell containing seventeen able-bodied men, and I don’t care to see it again. Fifteen men watched helplessly, as the two bulls came face to face in a grip of stone, their muscles malleable with every movement, adjusting to every twist of nerve, vein and sinew.
No one could hear any bones crack. It was too dark to see who was doing what to who. The only grim spectacle before us was that two enraged men who could no longer control their tempers where slugging it out in this small overcrowded ring.
I did not bargain for this. It was the last thing I expected to see. For some reason, I was sure that I was amongst reasonable men, and no provocation no matter how harsh, could lead anyone into a full-fledged fight inside this tight cubicle.
Now that I think back, it occurs to me that I could have stopped that fight with one word. My voice was the newest treasure in the cell, and I know what I could have said. But then, I was moody that night and I didn’t quite bargain for anything like this.
When it broke out, I pretended not to be there. I was going to see what a fight was like inside a prison cell, and act as if I was absent. I was a ghost hovering around the scene. I ducked inside the bed of Abuja as the fight reached fever pitch.
Everyone in the cell was bolt upright, and the half light did not help matters. The rattle and tumble of kitchenware was overwhelming to every ear present. The remnants of everybody’s meal was to be seen everywhere as two pieces of Goliath went on rampage in that cell.
Martin’s out-flung leg hit the bottom carton of biscuits at an angle of Solo Supermarket, just by the cell door, and the entire pile of cartons spilled their crunchy contents in one uncontrollable crash. Apostle Paul had taken advantage of the moment to put pressure on his opponent, his thick biceps rippling compulsively.
But Martin was grabbing the Apostle in a vice grip, somewhere he couldn’t let go. Apostle attempted a quick sleight of hand, but he only nudged one of the blue drums an inch too much, and everything leaning against it for support clattered all about.
Martin had proved himself on the field at Christmas as a wrestler to be respected. Even outside this prison, in all of Epie land, feel free to ask about Martin Egemuze. They will tell you that he is a smooth champion wrestler.
He had taken on Sunny Keke in a surprise match which even the referees confessed might have been won by the more skilful Martin. If not that Keke’s excessive weight stood him on solid ground, the younger wrestler would have been carried shoulder high by the waiting spectators.
Apostle could not be bothered. He was sure that, in his own right, he was a good wrestler too. He took his exercises seriously, lifting weights night and day to pass the time. He did not hail from Ogbia for nothing, and there was no doubt that he was fit and healthy enough to do damage to that small boy Martin. But that was exactly what Martin set out to prove, that he was not a small boy, and it would be a mistake to count him as such.
The two wrestlers crashed backwards over the full scale merchandise of the supermarket before rebounding against the only standing fan, and toppling over the water buckets. Sliding sideways, Apostle had attempted a somersault that only caused a greater riot in the cell. But the two combatants wrestled themselves to the finish, their muscles tout, their grunts loud, all their tactics in bullyhood on show.
The Big Bad Wolf grabbed his chessboard, and Tammy gathered the pawns into their wallet in one swoop. Jackson picked up his Bible and took a vantage position in his distressed corner. Chandrashekar Shamar, the little Indian pundit, fired a swift ricochet of Hindustani and quickly levitated into his bed space.
Everyone was so stunned by the sudden outbreak of the combat that, for what might have been five long interminable minutes in slow motion, we could only watch what Daniel Igali must have done to that white man in the Olympic ring.
In the end, the voice of Abuja resounded through the very being of the cavern with grand authority. He called for order and began to define the exact penalty for fighting in the cell. Two weeks of fetching water to fill the drums and the buckets. Two weeks to keep the Engine Room sparkling clean. The separation came quickly, just when it was not expected, like two mating dogs divorced in one sudden pull-out.
Apostle rushed back to his corner, rubbing his swollen right eye, and seemed to be in search of a weapon. I could hear him whisper urgently to MC, close enough for me to hear. ‘Do you have any sharp object. Give me. Give me a knife. A fork. A toothpick. Anything. I can’t let this small boy do this to me, and let him go’.
‘Forget it’, said MC to Apostle. ‘The fight is over for tonight. Tomorrow morning, you can continue’.
Apostle, mumbling incoherently, had no choice but to accept the verdict. This particular fight was over. What was left was to serve the full measure of the punishment that goes with fighting in the cell.
Martin, satisfied with what he had done to Apostle’s eye, beckoned on his assailant with a sadistic laugh to come forward for one more punch. But Abuja had spoken,. And the warders, unsettled by the prolonged uproar, had began to look in through the cell bars with inquisitive flashes of the torch.
Anything could have happened that night. The story could have been worse. No warder worth his uniform would have opened that cell that night, even if someone was fatally wounded. That was standard prison regulation.
Once the cell is locked for the night, it is locked till the following morning. It there was a fire outbreak, that was your business. Anyone foolish enough to cause an accident inside the cell would get everyone to bear the brunt, and suffer the pain in tow.
The chaos was presently to be seen all about the cell. To my surprise, Solomon, the owner of the supermarket who was supposed to lose his temper and crow louder than anyone in the cell, was as quiet as a Special Adviser. His entire warehouse had been destroyed right before him. His valuable market had been inveigled right under his nose by bandits.
A clear challenge had been thrown to him frontally, right in his own territory, yet he kept mum. He was just not in the mood to react. And it was a good thing he kept mum. He looked upon the fight as if it happened yesterday, and wondered why all his scattered goods had not been gathered till now.
‘When the right time comes’, he grumbled in his famous gravel voice, ‘you will both pay for this’. That’s all he said as he unwrapped his mosquito net, climbed into his six-spring hide-out, and tucked himself in.
That night, the two wrestlers had no choice but to clear up the mess they had created in the cell, even as they panted visibly, their chests heaving, even as they struggled to say the last disgruntled words from an irate cloud of anger that was swiftly simmering down into measured breaths of peace.
