One of my biggest surprises inside Okaka prison yard came to me the day I saw Bilekumo Okumoko walking around the football field. For a moment, I thought I was out in the free world again. If not, what could Bilekumo be doing inside this medium security prison? I had no doubt about who I was seeing. I can give a faithful description of Bilekus, as we called him with great fondness, and I’m sure he won’t mind what he sees in the mirror.
Bilekus does not mind being compared, in a cute way, to Papa Ajasco but only as far as the bald head goes. He enjoys a good laugh because it keeps him healthy. I have always admired him for having what I don’t have. When I was a young man, I wanted so desperately to be bald-headed before mid-life. I often brushed my hair backward, furiously, in the hope that the receding line would quickly extend to the outer fringes of my hair, and leave me with a plain tomato look.
I did not know Bilekus from Adam until I walked into Creek Haven, Yenagoa, as a principal staff to Governor Diepreye Alamieyeseigha. I was to function as Speech Writer and Bilekus was in the protocol department. He was there on account of his faithful service to Bayelsa State for more than twenty years.
Anybody who knows Bilekus will tell you that he is a true gentleman, humble to a fault. He takes one step at a time in all he does, and he remains loyal to his boss. He loves the highpoint of his job, namely to be of service to visiting dignitaries, to bring them into the hospitable comfort of Bayelsa, and be of help in guiding the visitor about anything they need to know concerning Glory Land.
Bilekus has been a credible Bayelsa guide in Creek Haven from the early days of Navy Captain Phillip Ayeni. He has helped to roll the red carpet for Navy Captain Caleb Olubolade and he held the chair, prepared the table for Colonel Edor Obi to sit down and feel free to address the waiting multitude. He has always been an easy-going, happy-go-lucky fellow. He minds his business and let’s everybody else mind theirs. So what could good old Bilekus be doing in this dungeon?
The much I know about Bilekus is that he read Theatre Arts at the University of Port Harcourt. I have never seen him on stage. I have never seen him on screen as an actor. The much I have seen of him on television is that he was one of the guys in suit standing behind the Governor. Our mutual friend, Sophia Obi, told me that Bilekus was a fine actor, and she should know because she is one. I remember asking if he could mimic faces with that expressionless look of his. So what could bring Bilekus into Okaka prison?
But Bilekumo was already smiling at me. He passed me a handshake, and said he was here to minister to the inmates. What do you know? Bilekus has become a pastor and I had no idea. I resolved to hear him preach. I walked with him into the Chapel of Mercy as if I had no choice in the matter. He was leading me into my only sanctuary in the prison yard, the cornerstone where I could sit for one moment of peace, and cogitate about me and God, and why he allowed me to walk through these iron gates in the first place.
Bilekumo told me that it was for a reason. God moves in mysterious ways his wonders to perform. May be he brought you in here for a unique assignment. What unique assignment would require me to lose my freedom? We shall soon find out. Let’s wait upon the Lord. God’s attitudinal disposition to mankind is glorious. In the end, he makes all things sweet. I had no reason whatsoever to disagree with my friend because another name for me is Sweet City Boy. Ask anybody in Fantuo.
Bilekus mounted the pulpit, behind him the stranded colours of the last Christmas celebration still laid out in green, red and orange bands nailed to the wall. The lectern was wooden, and upon it was branded the cross. I sat at the extreme end, right by the outer window overseeing the prison yard, spanning the view from the kitchen next door to the water tank, and on to the first two cell blocks marinated with gauze. If I leaned out a bit, and strained my neck, I could see further to the other two cell blocks.
But Bilekus was on the pulpit. He stood in for the Full Gospel Business Men’s Fellowship. I was glad to know about that. The first time I attended a prayer and worship meeting of the Full Gospel Business Men’s Fellowship was in my younger days as a youth corps member in Makurdi, Benue State. I had finished national service, and had taken a liking to the care-free serenity of Makurdi.
While waiting to confirm my first job offer with Radio Benue, my good friend, Sam Abah and his lovely wife, Vesta, invited me to join them for fellowship at Benue Hotels, overlooking the banks of the Makurdi River. I had taken to heart the soulful song from the fourth verse in the second chapter of the Book of Solomon, and Bilekus reminded me of that song that evening.
He had come to a point in his life, he said, when he thought it worthwhile to spare time and visit people behind bars, those incarcerated from the rest of the world for a while only. I was heartily encouraged by what I witnessed of my friend, and I began to see myself even more surely than ever before that I would be a pastor someday, with the entire world as my congregation. I would become the pastor of the world.
But Bilekus had called for everyone to hold hands and sing the known stanza of the fellowship just before the evening bell rang for every inmate to get back into their cells. God’s banner over us was still love when we broke up for the day. He had brought us here into his banqueting hall, we had no doubt, and his banner over us would always be love. That was the song I took back to my cell the first time Bilekus came to preach inside the stronghold of Okaka prison.
By the next Thursday, I was there to listen to him again, and I began to look forward to his visits for the simple reason that he could spare time to chat with me afterwards about the rising agitation for my release. I would be free, he was sure, and God’s purposes for my life would ripen fast. I thanked him for his prayers all the time, and I still do.
The only problem I had with Bilekumo’s sermon was when he alluded to me as his one-time drinking partner. His prayer was that God should cancel the dream he had one night that his belly was full of all the green bottles he had emptied in his lifetime. He stopped guzzling beer a long time ago, and he has since opted to work for God. I am happy for him, but I dare take exception to that allusion.
Did you hear that? Before he became a born-again Christian, he said, we used to share green bottles of Star beer together. That did not go down well with me at all. You know why? I was more at home with Arthur Guinness than beer when I knew Bilekus. That’s why.
