Prisoner 721

Àkpà Arinzechukwu

10.

The white Hilux van was seen all over the country: in the cities, villages, schools, mosques, churches, hospitals. It appeared everywhere at the same time of the day, between daybreak and sunset. In the van are usually three men in black uniforms or plain clothes of varying prints or pleats. The men possessed the fierceness of death that whenever the van stopped running, their legs touching the ground, silence like a cloud would descend upon the country. Activities stopped suddening to revert in total submission to the silence of a slow motion. 

The appearance of the van meant someone's disappearance. If it wasn't someone, then a group of people, usually, youths of the vicinity. Sometimes, even when the van didn't mean to take anyone, people still disappeared. 

No one knew where the disappeared people were. Whatever thing they thought they knew was based solely on speculation. Prison. Execution. Forced labour. Thrown into the ocean. Buried alive. Shallow graves. Immolation. Underground holding. Sex slaves for the top politicians. Black market body parts. 

Even though these were all speculations, it could not be denied that whoever was taken was gone forever. This could be the reason for the silence. Activities stopped for the men to tell them whom amongst them would disappear. And when this was known, the people would go back to their lives, overrun with absences. 

No one knew what year it was. No one knew what year the disappearance started. It started a long time ago. The first white Hilux van had parked to pick a young man, in his twenties, dreadlocked, pierced nose, covered in tattoos, and armed with Pidgin English. 

Newscasters had tied him to gang activity. Gang members dressed the same way. So in the beginning, the white Hilux van came for people who looked that way.

That was before the protest. 

Now, they came for everybody. Whoever they felt wasn't supposed to exist anymore. They were the Lord's executioners. 

And today they had parked at the same spot. Three of them, in black t-shirts, blue denims, and jungle boots. Each of them had a cigarette in hand, looking out the window, talking amongst themselves, against the backdrop of the overbearing silence of Lagos. 

Though it was cold, the people were sweating, carrying their hearts in their greased hands. 

This silence borne out of fear troubled Aisha. She gritted her teeth, clenched her fists, in a fury, was heading toward the men before someone stopped her, an elderly lady, old with the spasms of the sun. The wrinkles on the back of her palms shivered as she held on to Aisha. 

"Not today, abeg," she said. 

"You say that every time, mama," she responded, still bent on charging toward the men. "I wan know wetin them do Sodeeq. Him pikin done grow, and I still never see my man."

"Wetin you go gain if them carry you too?" She asked pleadingly. "Your pikin need you."

Aisha stopped to look at her child, blossoming in sunlight. He had the features of Sodeeq that reminded her so much of him. 

It was the unknown year since Sodeeq disappeared. No one was keeping records anymore. More people disappearing meant more mourning in the community. Also meant the timeline of grief had been blurred. Everything was happening, and it was happening too fast. 

If Aisha had made it through to the men, she would have been told to go to Panti. At Panti, the officers on duty who were now familiar with her face, and who it was she always looked for, would have told her again that Sodeeq was amongst the political prisoners transferred to Enugu. And if she smiled harder at officer Adekunle who had told her everything comes with a price, he'd have mistaken the smile for a greenlight to his lust. He'd have told him about Sodeeq's final days at Panti, before he was transferred. 

He would have told her that Sodeeq was not known anymore as Sodeeq but Prisoner 721. Prisoner 721 fought the prison but it wasn't too long he became the prison. He mastered every terrain, stroke, click and voice. He embodied servitude and emptiness. Prisoner 721 was a world in decay. He was the receding ocean. Sorry. He was a voice in the belly of the ocean, breaking, drowning, asphyxiating. 

And for a little cleavage, he'd have smacked his lips and told her: just for you. I telegrammed Enugu. E be like say your man done die. 

The news would have been both a revelation and also a victory for him, that the man standing in his way of getting laid was gone. He'd go into details because the bereaved always wanted it. The bereaved would want to know if the deceased died peacefully or if it was in pain. It was something the living owed the dead.

He wouldn't have held anything back. His mouth, anchored by the knowledge of prisons, would spew into Aisha's ears, nights Prisoner 721 cried loudly into the morning, talking to himself, to an unseen writer. 

And he would not forget to say that when Prisoner 721 hung himself, his dangling feet broke the future in him. He'd take his right hand from where he had been keeping it in communion, placed it on Aisha's back, attempting to reach for her bum. 

If his audience hadn't broken into tears, he'd tell her how moved the warders in Enugu were when they were burying his body late that night. The two warders who recognised Prisoner 721 by his protest video on the Television, while conducting a quick funeral for him in a shallow grave at the southern flank of the prison, stopped to look at his corpse one more time. 

"Do you think we'll go to heaven after all we've done?" 

"Yes. Why?" 

"I can't sleep anymore. The images of the prisoners we buried still dey pursue me."

"Ask for leave. You are stressed."

"I don't want to die."

"We work for the government."

"I am afraid."

"Nothing is going to happen."

"I don't want to lie anymore."

"You are not lying. It is for the unity of the country."

"That a dead person isn't really dead but transferred to another correctional centre?" 

"See it as your own contribution toward nation building."

The two wards dumped the body in the grave, shoveling quickly, through tears. 

Aisha might not believe it, but Adekunle had no reason to lie. Though Adekunle always lied to the women he desired, this was different. If he didn't say the truth because he wanted sex, the dead might haunt his dreams. 

Today, Aisha had chosen to believe another version of this story. She made her decision the moment she stared hard at the son she made with Sodeeq, that twilight breath they both captured in flesh. She freed herself from her mother's grasp, running toward the van in a rage she didn't know she possessed. 

The men, alerted, stepped off the van, dragged their guns along, aiming at the whirlwind before them, silence deepening, ready to swallow what was coming. 

9.

Sodeeq in his final days talked to no one. Suddenly the dead writer of his imagination stopped talking to him. He dreamed of home, the touch of a woman, Aisha, precisely. He fantasized about riding away on a bird’s wing to a certain day after Eid, laying next to Aisha on the bed in the only room apartment he rented, a little bigger than his prison cell. He was sniffing her, lavender, some aloe scented deodorant reeking off her skin. He closed his eyes. His hands were in Aisha’s weavon. And even though his eyes were closed he knew Aisha’s were too. He was not in a hurry for anything to happen. He had time and he was going to exhaust it all. Aisha, the girl who was the first to refer to him as a ‘professional musician’ – Aisha, who patted his shoulders the days he wished he knew something else to be doing with his life – Aisha, who taught him to cook, to take care of himself because she wasn’t ready to babysit an adult – oh Aisha, the patron Saint of charm – Aisha, she was just there moaning as Sodeeq touched her, and then as if they couldn’t take their time anymore, made something happen. 

Recently, he had started seeing Aisha in his dreams. More and more the dreams went from an obscure film to a fully developed motion picture. In one dream, Aisha was on the beach, the hem of her abaya tied at the side of her right leg so she was looking like she was without a cloth, a ghost in a Yoruba movie. Her back was turned to him. No matter what he said she wouldn’t turn. 

In another dream, Aisha was crying. He came close to ask her why she was unhappy and inconsolable only to see a little boy stiff on a prayer mat. He was dead. 

Aisha featured in his dreams as a snake, an ant, a rat, a spider. She was always chasing him. He was always running. Even when he didn’t want, the wind always came for him. 

In the dream before his death, the writer had visited the newlyweds. It was dinnertime, they were seated round a table talking about the role of the artist in the society. The writer had said something between ‘either ways, there’s no happy ending for the artist’ and ‘who knows what would have happened if we never fought?’ and he was going to ask them what they meant before they pulled a gallon of petrol he never knew they carried all this while, poured it on themselves and light the article of clothing on them. 

Every time he had these dreams he would spring from his bug-ridden bed and start screaming ‘enough’, still it was not enough. He didn’t need to close his eyes anymore to dream, the characters in his dream walked to him, from the host of prisoners there, across the pavilion, past security checks into the dilapidated cell of his residence, shaving, bathing, feeding him. At first he rejected all forms of food from them but dare him reject food made by Aisha? The writer always brought him water. He ate enough food from them that instead of looking bubbly he was thinner than a broomstick. 

And on the night of his death, Aisha had made his favorite soup, egusi stocked with enough beef. Spicy and oily. As he ate, the writer was at the side nudging him to eat quickly. 

‘You are needed here, Sodeeq,’ the writer whispered. 

‘A minute and I will join you,’ Sodeeq replied in a voice that was no longer his, the one taken from him the day he was arrested, along with his bandmates. 

8.

When loneliness visited him it meant to keep him company rather than shattering its host. Sodeeq’s relationship with loneliness was one done on contract. Each agreed to be a good partner. So far Sodeeq did his part. He did it well. And who’s to say a man too withdrawn from extracurricular activities wasn’t busy himself being a moment? However cursed the moment was, it was a contract he must abide by. He made loneliness feel like fun. He made it look like there was no world outside of misery, late night sobs, pain. He played a clown. He even lost himself in the act. He played a motivational speaker, a zen teacher. And what did loneliness offer in turn? It fed him dreams. It brought him hope. Another moment spent with God and His messengers. He had started a diary. 

Tuesday, 

Allah, the most merciful, gives his word. What am I, a mere mortal? If he wants the mountain, who am I to protest? What happens when a creation, a pawn, in order of things protest against the chess master? 

Friday, 

Who are we if not an infinite set of impossibilities? What is the chess master without the board? 

Monday, 

I have lost my tongue. I can’t eat. Even if this tongue eats, it doesn’t differentiate taste. 

Sunday, 

I am convinced this people want me dead. I have no reason to not think so, the writer told me. Aisha warned me not to eat food not made by me. I am eating my feces. 

Saturday, 

Allâhumma la sahla illa ma ja’altahu sahlan wa Anta taj’alul hazna idha shi’ta sahlan. 

If the Almighty doesn’t make it easy on me, who am I? I am eating my shit for dinner. 

What he wanted to do with his diary at first was to write words, thoughts that might inspire the band’s next hit song when they are out from prison but since it wasn’t part of the things offered by boredom and loneliness, he accepted he was a changed man, one dedicated to following all the Quranic instructions his father taught him. The ones he had deserted because he was grown and could do what he wanted. How, how, does man, at his lowest, turn to God? 

7.

Before depression claimed Sodeeq he had sat side by side with a man who was an imam in his former life. He was pale, his bald spate shone like the silver panel of a watch when illuminated by a fluorescent bulb. His incisors had gone AWOL so that when he spoke spontaneously in English it was a riddle except when he was meditating or when he was done praying. Sodeeq had meant to ask him how he still had composure even though he had stayed ten years in prison already. ‘You just trust in Allah,’ the imam spurted as he set to roll up his prayer mat. ‘You trust he’ll make the burden light.’ But how are you so sure? ‘Because he always proved Himself to me.’

That was four days before news of the imam’s possible release found itself spreading within the walls of the prison. 

‘Believe, son. Believe. Allâhu akbar,’ he smiled, revealing his missing dentition. ‘Believe.’

Maybe, now, he thought, the imam didn’t believe enough. He was performing faith where hope was all lost, for as soon as a glimpse of hope came through for the imam, he was stabbed to death with a ballpoint pen. The imam was a Shiite Muslim, his nemesis, the one that brought him here, had found him here and acted swiftly – Shaitan always a step ahead of his victims. 

This was his first time close to terror. He had witnessed the death of the only person linking him to God. It was this experience that caught him off-guard throwing him into resentment and scared of getting close to other inmates. It seemed each time he relaxed around someone something forces them apart – certain he was a cursed moment. Sodeeq in the basketball court was a cursed moment. Sodeeq lunching was a cursed moment. Sodeeq requesting water was a cursed moment. Sodeeq, in the kitchen, the toilet, at laundry, during manual labour, at prayers, was a cursed moment. If he opened his mouth it was sure a gesture towards infinitesimal sorrow. His ambition to be famous amongst Nigerians was what led him to this moment. 

‘Upon all my belief,’ he had told the imam: ‘I can’t sleep. Sleep evades me. I think of a distant land – a place very far from my reach.’ The imam had shook his head, took his hands, lowering his gaze said: belief in something doesn’t mean you have faith in it. One way or the other we are leaving this prison, though. 

And did Sodeeq not admit that his freedom had been taken but his spirit was not touched? Did he not go to his cell every night hearing vehicles bleating into the morning sun. Aisha was there waiting for him at the bus stop as he rushed to go try one more time at the corporate world. If he got that job interview he was sure to go ask Aisha’s parents for their blessing. The sun kissed his goatee and he was a boy full of hope. One more shot. She kissed him blessings immediately a Lekki bus showed up. Aisha, the patron Saint of loveliness. He would do anything to behold her at that bus stop for the second time. 

6.

It wasn’t a prison till the band was separated. Adeniyi the guitarist had been sent to Zaria. Ọnwụbiko the drummer was sent to Kirikiri Maximum, and Obiajụlụ sent to Calabar. The four members of the band had become a force in the prison, always performing and winning hearts. With them it was impossible to not jump to the music they made. The prison inspector had happened on the band one day performing a Fela’s classic ‘Beast of No Nation’ and decided it was the end of fun for the band. ‘These boys must be taught a lesson,’ he had said. ‘What do they think we are? Music producers? Oh they think they’re in a studio? Yank them away!’

5.

Is the way out of sorrow more sorrows? 

4.

It was Ọnwụbiko who first had a taste of tragedy. That day, it had come for him like a little harmless ant, he leaned to let the ant walk onto his palms but it stung him. It was not a harmless ant. It was a scorpion, and it stung him on a Sunday. The prison’s chaplain had called him over after the service. He was smiling at Ọnwụbiko, inquiring his welfare, making sure he reminded the backsliding brother that in the end, when all hope was lost, God was always there to save everyman. But Ọnwụbiko was not everyman. He was the same boy whose addiction to marijuana led to the formation of the band. He was the boy from the street certain he would never amount to anything. In fact, if he hadn’t been arrested sooner or later he would end up in prison anyway. It was a fate he was certain of. He had slept at police stations three times. First as a twelve year old for stealing a loaf of bread. Second as a nineteen years old person, for stealing cigarette sticks from Baba Yemi, the old man with a charred dentition. And third for accepting payment for a work he would never do. Of the four members of the band he was the only one with experience of how the penal code worked. That was the reason he always chuckled when the other members of his band beamed with hope. 

‘See the papers na,’ Sodeeq pushed. ‘Everyone is cheering for us. Amnesty International will soon take us out of here.’ And no matter the voice Sodeeq used, Ọnwụbiko was least motivated. ‘My only worry is I didn’t get to say bye properly,’ he would retort. 

If he had the opportunity to go back to the day the protest happened, he would spend half of the day with his mama. She was the only one who believed he would turn a new leaf. Her hope of seeing her only son become a changed person was dashed the day the neighbors told her what had befallen her son. 

It must have been a lonely death. It must have been as a result of heart break. She must have imagined her son been tortured day and night the way her careless neighbors exaggerated the event. It must have been shock – disappointment. 

She didn’t even get to see him for the last time. According to the news, she had gone in to her room that night like all nights except this night, neighbors heard her sobbing. At sunrise, she was still not out. Her body was discovered two days later. The person who sent in the letter informing Ọnwụbiko wished ‘truthfully’ above all to send him a picture of his mother. He too couldn’t stand the sight. So he resorted to not sending it. 

That certain Sunday that chaplain handed him that letter, he wished he hadn’t attended the Sunday service. It would have been easier to face the prison walls with the idea of a living mother than a dead one. 

That Sunday in his cell he had started a song stomping the floors of the cell, but the lyrics escaped him. He tried a gospel song, an Igbo Catholic song. The lyrics eluded him too. He started wailing, and the next door prisoners who knew the song he gestured towards helped him out. They sang with their souls and flesh. Sorrow hung at their lintels, unshaken, as it made its way into that silent, holy night. 

3.

‘You know,’ Adeniyi started. ‘You were right about something, Sodeeq. We have gone global.’ He sniggered as the Black Maria van drove them away. 

‘We’ll be out soon,’ Sodeeq assured, forcing himself into believing. ‘Aisha can’t raise that child alone.’

‘Why is it not today, fam?’ Obiajụlụ inquired. ‘Man, I made a pot of pasta I didn’t even taste before this gig.’

‘Brace yourselves,’ Ọnwụbiko scoffed. 

2.

By the time the military police whisked the band away most of what happened had happened. The afternoon sun eager to overcome the cloud that had buried it five hours ago had emerged, a tired man pushing his truck from Jupiter all round the universe. The crowd little by little had gathered. The crowd a mixture of sweat from butchers, mechanics, unsatisfied government employees, market women and union members, had grown in smell as well as size that it was not difficult to know who was who yet  no one knew each other except neighbors who could say: hey, didn’t know you are unhappy about this regime, too. And: oh, no one’s spared from bad governance. Everyone’s placard raised above their heads screamed their frustrations, marched, danced to the tune of the band. The band’s vocalist sang like he had always anticipated this moment, the day everyone gathered around him to fully recognize and pay him the homage he deserved. Three times he jumped into the air, tilting his head sideways, back and forth like Bob Marley. Every move of his a calculated allusion to the legends who walked so he could run.

Few days ago, perhaps few years ago, or even few minutes ago the band would never have dreamed that the recognition they craved would come to them on a platter of gold. Few minutes ago no one knew they existed. Well, that’s not true. Few minutes ago only the people that attended Lagos night clubs knew that a band whose name was 2 Fucked existed. The underground was where they belonged because even if they were mainstream no one would want to say to each other in the street or after church service ‘bruh, that 2 fucked album is a hit back to back’. This 2 Fucked was what might have been desired but not dared uttered. 

Before the band finally settled to be called 2 Fucked they were The Majestic Four. That was five years ago. They walked the path of Marley but didn’t make it far. The owner of the last club they played was so embarrassed he paid them for two nights, begging them to never play around his club again. Fucking Europeans, what do they know? 

Before The Majestic Four was Blueprint but they only did one song every family member listened to only when any of the band member was around. 2 Fucked was a culmination of failures – a testament that the band tried, never stopped trying. 2 Fucked meant they were actually a fucked up people. Four men who knew nothing else to be except smoking, drinking, picking fights, while trying in vain to be responsible adults. 

It was no wonder as the crowd gathered around Makoko settlement, and without knowing the back story a member of the band tore off the hard cover of the ledger showrunners always carried for inventories, wrote quickly: 2 Fucked Under Junta! and soon it was the message the crowd was all inscribing onto their cardboard papers, screaming. It was out of great showmanship that the vocalist while performing his stunts eavesdropped on the crowd to gather that they had gathered here in solidarity of the writer who set themselves on fire to protest the demolition of Makoko. Perfect timing, he improvised, soon the anthem was: we are on fire / still they don’t care about us / them want, them want make we leave this country for them... 

Chorus: Never, never, never! 

A section of the mob departed towards the local government complex, the other stayed screaming into camera and the journalists covering the protest. What looked like a concert morphed into a wildfire, one only fueled by the image of a writer burning on a national television and the band cheering and reminding them of all the ways the government had stolen from them. 

1.

He learned of Aisha’s pregnancy as she was shaving him that morning. His lips had parted ways first, he let the jaw drop, he attempted saying something but he was overwhelmed by the adrenaline taking a flight in his body. ‘It is October,’ he said as soon as he found words. ‘No April’s fool in October, right?’ She nodded. She nodded again, chuckling. 

Even though it wasn’t how they planned it, they were happy. They had planned raising a family after Sodeeq sought her parents’ blessing. He always wanted but not having a steady source of income he delayed it. 

‘You are going to be a father, Sodeeq,’ she said. ‘A responsible father,’ he interjected. 

It was out of excitement that Sodeeq who had planned to not leave his house on this day called his bandmates. He had an idea. 

Makoko had been on people’s lips lately, if they got to play in front of those ruins, they might feature in an international news, Sony Music might see them and sign them up. Something about the good news assured him that good things awaited the band. 

‘Aisha is pregnant, guys. It is a sign. We are going global!’