I arrived at the prison around 2pm. After a brief meeting with the police commander and the head of the prison, I was asked to proceed through the second gate.
I was greeted by a huge USAID HIV sign and a lanky young inmate who said he would be shaving me clean on the orders of the Chief Warden. I had long hair and a beard which the kid shaved off within minutes using a razor that had already been used on several other people. I told myself that I now probably had HIV/AIDS, but it didn’t matter. I would be killed soon anyway so there was no need to worry.
I was then taken to a small office where I received a short lecture. Convert to Islam and you’ll live. It would make our job easier and anyway, “You’re a Hausa man. You can’t be anything but a Muslim, right? So save yourself.” I was then led out and given a set of clothes, a plastic cup, a plate and a mat. Next I was taken to a small enclosure for a shower. There were no doors, only a small scarf rug. And the latrine was awful – dirty and leaking. But my tiny cell was well-matted, tidy and clean despite being infested with flies.
Back in the office I was given instructions about prison routine and told that I would only be there for two weeks. I thought I could manage that, I could endure. By now I had already been in police custody for 60 days. Also, I was given some words of advice. I should tell no one my name and I should not loiter in the common areas because there were dangerous inmates who were looking to cause a riot so they could escape – or who wanted to make a name for themselves. I should not question orders but obey them without hesitation. I could see that I was now, in effect, a slave.
Immediately after that we heard the call to prayer. So we lined up to wash and then we faced Mecca to pray. This was something that I hadn’t done for a decade except when ordered to by my father or when friends had come to me with tears in their eyes and begged me to join in.
The warders were elated because they had succeeded in a task which the police had failed to achieve. So they rewarded me with sugar, tea bags, toothpaste, a toothbrush and other small but vital items. They told me that I was the first new prisoner to enter the prison since the onset of Covid-19 and that, if questioned, I should say that I was a politician awaiting trial for embezzlement. This didn’t really make sense as the international Covid protocol decreed that no one charged with a serious offense could be admitted to the prison. However, it gave me a profile. I was rich so I would be worshipped.
Immediately people started to wash my plates and clothes, and fetch me water. They flattered me with pleasantries and respectful words, and came to me with their complaints – about the food, about bullying, about the lack of progress with their court cases, about their wives and children not having anything to eat. All the usual prison complaints. I said that if I got bail, I would ensure they got help within two weeks. As it happened, I was only able to keep these promises in September 2024 when I was finally released from Abuja jail.
All the prisoners showed signs that they had suffered. They had gashes on their skin, scars from wounds and evidence of poverty and poor nutrition. Their mouths and armpits smelled foul. It was clear that I had been taken back in time to a gladiator world. Indeed, according to the calendar of the Sharia states it was 1440 AH as reckoned from Muhammad’s journey from Mecca to Medina.
At night, after the 6pm lock up, mosquitoes came in swarms. However, good Samaritans had made me a soft bed in the centre of the cell with a pillow, blanket and net. At 4am I had to rise and join in the prayers, and at 6am a gong sounded to wake everyone again. I was just beginning to learn the routine.
To be continued….
By Mubarak Bala
Writing from Europe