I am still owing Martin an exercise book and a pen. I promised him that much before I left the yard because he helped me in a personal way. He served my food. He was glad to carry my bucket of water into the engine room. He put a stool for me to climb over his bed into mine when my leg was swollen, and especially when it was scarified for the bad blood to flow out.
Martin was of great help to me. He never hesitated to be of service to me. He always wanted me to feel at ease. And most of all, Martin had the only full blown fight in the cell on my behalf. Martin was one of the last inmates I got to know at a personal level, even though he was sleeping right under me. He was quiet. He minded his business. He went to bed early, and woke up late. He cooked his meal with his own pots and pans and plates.
From the first day the cell boss expressly told him to boil water for me, Martin could not wait to show just how happy he was to do so. He saw it as his unfailing duty. He offered to boil water for me, even if I didn’t need it, even if I didn’t request it. He would simply walk up to me, and say that he had boiled my water, in case I might want to drink tea.
“Or, do you want to climb up to your bed now? How’s the leg?”
And he would gladly bring one plastic chair for me to clamber over him into my private space. He was happy to dress my bed in the morning. He was delighted to make conversation with me. There seemed to be something about me that fascinated Martin no end, and I still don’t know what it is. Many atimes I would turn, and catch Martin staring at me with obvious admiration, a shy smile playing around his lips. He called me Elder from the first day he addressed me, with great respect.
Martin was to confess to me later that he was waiting to ask me a few questions, and he would be grateful if I could answer them. O, yes. I would. Go ahead, said I. Martin wondered how my picture came to be on the back of my books, the books he had been arranging on my bed. Did I really write them the way I write into my exercise books?
I sniggered into my sleeves. I had read somewhere that if a writer is marooned on an island, the first thing he would miss would be his books. I didn’t want to miss my books, stranded as I was on Okaka Island. From the day I got to know that I could read books in the prison yard, I told my son to bring all the books I have ever written, one after the other.
Bring my babies to me, said I. Rembi did so, and if he wasn’t able to make it, Karamote brought them to me, one by one. In the end, I had the entire pile of chap books on my six-spring bed. I don’t know how many times I flipped through them, just for the heck of it. I quite forgot that my face was on every one of them until Martin reminded me.
“Yes,” I said. “That’s my face on the back of the books. It’s there, staring out at the world, because I wrote them.”
And Martin would shake his head in wonder, and say how amazed he was to see me scribbling into my notebook as if I had no choice whatsoever. Didn’t I feel any pain in the hand, any strain? And he went on to tell me in confidence, in whispers, that he could not write. He didn’t go to school. In fact, he ran far away from school, and now he is only able to spell out his name with great labour. So, how come I make writing so easy? I told him it is the Lord’s doing, and it is marvellous even in my sight.
Martin made me pledge that I would teach him to read and write. On my part, I promised that I would send in a printed copy of my work as soon as I got out of detention. I am glad to report that I kept that promise when I sent in copies of the July edition of Coastline News Network with a cartoon illustration of me on the cover, announcing my freedom.
But newspapers are not allowed in prison, except the nation’s foremost sports paper. That’s why I still owe Martin a new book, something fresh he can hold in hand, flip from page to page, and follow his own story, the story of his cell, as it unfolds. And when I think back, there are some things I couldn’t help but take note about Martin.
He had the most musical clap of hands in that cell. The medley of praise and worship was not complete if Martin was too sleepy to join in. But whenever he did, morning devotion became a sweet experience. Martin would weave his peculiar clapping into the numinous thunderclap from the rest of the cell, as if a needle were picking its tender way through willing fabric, and the melody that came with the combination of stamping feet was electric to the ear.
And all the while he clapped and sang, swaying to the whirlwind of joy in his soul, Martin would be standing by the cell door, looking out for any suspicious movement at the White House, anything to suggest that the warders might swoop on us with a surprise morning raid of the cell, in search of anything contraband.
The first time it happened, I found it hard to believe. That sweet unction of worship, that holy morning prayer session, was interrupted abruptly, by the immediacy of the moment’s nameless threat. A strange frenzy entered the cell, and I saw every inmate in all their naked anxiety.
Everyone, including Abuja, was on the alert. Everyone began to shuffle about in quick jerky movements, including the Indians, tidying up their corners, tucking away items that had been taken for granted, and generally doing their best to be of good conduct.
Chandrashekar muttered a quick spray of Hindustani that left me perplexed until I heard the balded-headed Captain reply with equal urgency. For a moment, I wondered if the warders would seize my books, and accuse me of smuggling them in. What would I do then? Where could I hide them?
But the warders were looking, principally, for what the inmates call “the matter.” That, in short, is another name for the cell phone in your hand. The matter was contraband in prison. You are not supposed to talk to anybody in the outside world from your cell. To be found in possession of the matter was to part with good money, or even hang for a while on the barbed-wire fence at the fearsome and infamous punishment ground known as Charlie Port.
No inmate wanted to go to Charlie Port, and there was no money to part with. That was why everyone was in a hurry to put away all the matter, in case there were any in the cell. I got to know some of the most secret places in that cell, places I couldn’t believe anything could be hidden.
It was as if secret doors were opening in a fairy tale, and talkative rats had invaded the cell to take away everything suspicious, everything that the warders might find incriminating. And then the helpful rats had taken cover themselves, and became quiet in their corners as every inmate was, until the key turned in the lock, and the iron gate swung back on its grating hinges.
“Good morning, everybody,” said the Chief Warder, head of his squad of invaders, standing in the doorway. The reply came as a chorus from obedient infants in class.
“Good morning, sir.”
There might have been seven or eight warders, all of them dressed one way or the other, in their thick green sweaters with the yellow lining over rugged khaki trousers and camouflage boots. Those without hoods over the head wore merciless looks on their faces.
“Everybody file out of the cell. Leave everything as they are. Don’t take anything with you. You there, what are you doing? I say don’t touch anything. File out just the way you are. Raise your hands. Let’s see your hands. Move it”.
