The first week of October, 2020 started on a rather gloomy note for me and my family, at large. Having to watch my father return to the very soil he's made of, heaping the deposits of that same soil on his corpse still stand as an indelible moment to me.
Finding my way back to Twitter and seeing the world pick up this fight against SARS was enough trigger and before I realized what was happening, I was already swimming in a pool of memories. Memory, they say, have a way of replaying like a consistent loop tape. The fact that I could have lost my father about five years ago came as a shock, the fact that these men in black uniforms who ought to be watchdogs have countlessly proven to be bulldogs and at a very infantile age, I witnessed first hand what this nightmare feels like is troubling.
May 2015 - I'm not sure I can remember the exact date anymore. But it was the month of May and it definitely was the year 2015. That very night, I was home with my dad and sister, Tawakalt. Whilst we were busy sorting out class assignments in the room while stealing occasional glances at the TV, my dad was busy chatting loudly with his friend some corridors away. Well, what is to be expected of our oldies? Conversations, conversations, conversations. And then came this very loud gunshot that rang across the community. And another gunshot. Then, everywhere was momentarily silent, only for screams and cries for help to break out in the neighborhood. The cries were non directional, everything was too quick to predict what was about to happen or was already happening, as the case might be.
It was Ijora Badia, a community already pronounced for its hooliganism culture and constant riots. But the community has been silent for long, so why this sudden stampede? I fled out with my sister to join my dad and his friend who were also agape and in absolute shock of the drama that was yet just forming shape, as of then. The fact that my mom was still out at her shop some streets away was quite worrisome. News was already travelling about that a popular SARS officer, Ibrahim Odufarasin was the one spearheading the riot, basically to harass innocent citizens, cart off their goods and kill, if need be. It was not the first time, it was not the second time such would be opening. Ibrahim was already an household name, a community terror no one dares question.
But that night was iconic. Very very iconic. Dad stepped out of the house with his friend and they both stood at the exit passage, while watching the scampering individuals and trying to get the best escape route for his friend who equally stays some streets away and was quite worried about the well-being of his family, that night too. Dad decided to call my mom at that same time and notify her of the unrest, so she could find a rather safe place to stay till the heat dies down. Well, that was his undoing.
Within a blink of an eye, I watched as Ibrahim and his guys lifted cutlasses in unison and they did hacked my father that very night. It was instant, quick and countless. Slaps, machetes, cutlasses, everything was just too swift to even process what was happening. Dad's friend already fled as of that moment, I stood transfixed with my sister, not sure of what exactly to do or pick. What level of strength can two infantile duo possess against hefty, armed bastards who were more than twenty at a go? I was already processing how it would feel like, picking the remains of my father at such horrible scene. It was unimaginable. After what seems like five minutes or thereabouts, they suddenly froze collectively and fled into the streets. I immediately rushed to the scene with my sister, only to find my dad struggling out of the gutter he was pushed into. His clothe was obviously torn and tattered from the cuts, even his phone was nowhere to be found. Shocking as it is, he was however unharmed from the machete effects, safe for the marks that were involuntarily evident on his skin. Whatever it's the miracle that happened that night, we were made to believe was due to his deep inclination in Ifa spirituality and possession of hereditary African amulets. In the absence of that, perhaps these guys would have hacked my father to death - in that very gutter. For what crime, exactly? For calling his wife to inform her of the unrest around.
Well, the trouble didn't end there. My dad was determined to see Ibrahim face the music for his acts. Perhaps, he wasn't aware that these lots were birds of a feather and they were all united in this cult of discord and deliberate injustice. In that same dented, ripped clothes, he headed for the police station to report the atrocities of Ibrahim to the supposed superiors. Well, he met Ibrahim right there in the station and before he could say anything, he was slapped into the cell and framed for being a godfather of the community hooligans. He spent the night in that mosquito infested cell, even when there was no valid proof as to the allegation pinned against him. No one was allowed to see him, not even his wife. We all couldn't sleep that night, the whole household was thrown into disarray and confusion.
He could have spent another night in that cell, safe for the intervention of his friends in the police force that we had to reach. And even then, some considerable amount of money was still taken for him! Pure extortion, even when it was obvious he was the one who deserves compensation!
Trying to retell what SARS officers or the whole police force have openly done within here as a show of brutality would be synonymous to revisiting old, terrible wounds. Ibrahim Odufarasin, an individual that could as well pass as a metaphor for all the rots and decadence in the nation, at large. Together with his Onyabo boys, they didn't stop after that incident. They continually posed as menace and despite the outcry of the community inhabitants, they would always have their way. From raping wives in the presence of their husbands to arresting people and disposing them to wild animals, Ibrahim and his boys did stir a whole lot of unrest. Revisiting his several exploits, I could still remember how he sporadically released bullets sometimes at a naming ceremony simply because he claimed his approval was not sought before the event was held. Asides from the fact that the naming ceremony ended up in absolute shambles, Ibrahim and his goons did made sure at least ten people lost their lives with several injured from stampede. Well, what will the media put out? Three dead. THREE DEAD. The media has always been working against the masses for long, I'm not even surprised. News travelled like wildfire then that he was transferred to Panti for trial but not up to a week, the bastard was up against in the community, prowling like the ignominable killer that he actually was.
There are so many evils in the world, it's quite disturbing that the police force who ought to serve as an escape are only there to further compound the evil, more. That baby whose naming ceremony was disrupted some years back will likely get to read this story some times soon and I just do not know, I just do not know what feel of phobia that would be. Till today, I still have phobias for gutter. Everytime I get to see one, I imagine myself being pushed in and hacked to death ... Hacked by men whose faces I know not, names I cannot rightly place but the bitterness within them, large enough to spread around for a decade.
This is why we fight! This is why we will not be tired! We will not stop until we are free! #EndSARS