Once Upon An Incorruptible Criminal Read online

Once Upon An Incorruptible Criminal

  By Kehinde Fawumi

  (Author of Tomorrow's Realities Today and Managers' Manual for the 21st Century)

  Copyright © 2011 Kehinde Fawumi

  Background

  "Anthony, how did you define youth migration the other day?" I asked putting up a frontal mien.

  "Migration is the deadly transit from Nigeria to Libya through the perils and risks of starvation, dehydration and death; far from the nightmare of frustration, poverty, brain-drain and unemployment in Nigeria.” He answered impulsively with a kind of well meaning sarcasm.

  Startled, I marveled at the alacritous briskness with which he answered the question. “How is that supposed to absolutely explain a multifarious issue like international migration?” I probed further.

  “You may not understand. We were about 2,000 youths that left Nigeria in 2007. Over 50% died already, just few of us made it back home. Ask Papa-Du he’ll give you more details” He replied.

  Completely patronized by Tony’s informed description of local and intercontinental migration, I gave in to his putdowns. And I listened as he told a tale of his personal tragic migration experience to Libya…and back.

  “The day was February 10, 2007. It was a Saturday. I stood with two of my friends, awaiting the dirty-white pick-up” Tony started. I adjusted my sit, ready to listen.

  Do not press your panic button unless you are dying.

  Do not talk out of the window.

  Do not sit on the window sill.

  Do not kick your door.

  Do not make a wick.

  Do not steal from your fellow prisoners.

  Do not smoke or drink.

  Do not seal outgoing mail.

  Do not play-fight with your cellmate.

  Do not lend or borrow.

  Do not make holes in the walls.

  Do not graffiti on the furniture.

  Do not damage any prison property.

  You must be up by 5:00am and must not sleep till 10:00pm.

  No sleep in the day time.

  You must work 12 hours every day.

  Get used to it, you live here now.

  "Fine," I said. The prison officer shut the door.

  I thought about my so-called crime and I became bitter. I thought about why I had handed myself over to the police, and I regretted it. “I could have escaped like Biodun and Tosin” I thought. “But it could be dangerous, Olamide was shot down when he tried to escape” I soliloquized.

  Benghazi was a horrible place. A lot of Sudanese and Egyptians were there as well. The guards were simply mean. They made us watch the executions of the recalcitrant prisoners. The guards lined them up in the circle and gave them forks and spades. They made them dig their own graves.

  Once the graves were ready, the prisoners held to each other crying while the guards machine-gunned them all. After that, survivors were made to cover their graves with soil. Witnessing those executions was one of the worst things I ever experienced in my whole life.

  Then we became afraid to go near the graves because people were saying that the soil was moving and that underneath some people were still alive. We were very frightened by all of it.

  Every day the prison officers would say to us – “whoever attempts an escape will be burnt alive”. I couldn’t take this in. The scenarios of human exterminations I witnessed had unconsciously conditioned my mind and feelings to dance to the rhythmic drumbeat of non-conformity. Soon, I became obsessed with escape and even when my answers didn’t make any sense, I kept asking. “How can I do it? How can I get out of here healthy, alive, today?”

  I knew my life would be in danger but I had no other choice. Either I would die or reach another life elsewhere. It would be better to die in the city than await it in the prison. I assured myself.

  On this fateful day, as the end of the day neared, and the work party headed back into the prison lodgings, I ducked behind a truck on the field. I was sure all the channels were entirely through. And that no one was close enough to notice my escapade. Looking around, I found no one, I became more confident.

  “We kill headstrong prisoners that attempt sneaky deals here. You are doomed for death!” A guard whispered, scouting me from behind.

  Fear gripped me. I laid flat on my belly and beg for my life. By now, I was ready to offer whatsoever he requested. So when he asked that I cover for him that night while he raped an Egyptian lady of 17, my consent was automatic. And by the way, who is then the criminal?

  My crime? I did not have an ID card or permit to stay in Libya. I was an illegal alien in Benghazi, Libya and that was good for a year jail term. Without charge or trial for illegal immigration I was detained for nine months.

  I regretted ever embarking on the search for hope, which resulted in the ill-fated experience that I’m sharing with you. Kenny.

  “I am sorry you had such a horrible experience.” I said calmly sympathizing with Anthony, who was now in tears as he shared his migration experience with me.

  “You should be glad you are here now! Many others did not make it back.” I continued.

  “And why did you migrate in the first instance?” I asked as I took notes.

  Just like every Nigerian youths I met in Tripoli and Benghazi, my migration to Libya was borne out of my quest to attain physical safety and socioeconomic security. The journey was actually intended for Italy in Europe but nemesis caught up with me. I got arrested on my travel over the Mediterranean Sea.

  On the sea, our sailor missed his way. We wandered on the sea for two hours. Our boat was eventually seen by Tunisian fishermen who directed us back to Libya. On re-entering Libya, we were stopped by a Libyan police at the border with Tunisia and detained.

  It was a deserved end for an act of greed and insatiability.

  We were fifty-four in the boat. As we noticed the police men on the border, four of my friends jumped off and took to their heels. Two of them were gunned-down and died immediately, while the other two made it safely.

  “Please let me use the restroom,” Tony paused and requested humbly.

  “It’s ok, I will be waiting” I replied.

  Tony cried as he talked with me that night. His story as an asylum-seeker demonstrates the extents to which people are willing to go to escape a variety of problems, whether political, social or economic, which they face in their country of origin.

  While crossing the deserts and the Mediterranean Sea, men, women and children alike endure great hardships. With little choice but to place their lives in the hands of smugglers, they are faced with life-threatening situations, often ending in the unnecessary deaths of family members, friends and fellow travelers. Many of them are aware of the dangers they are likely to encounter en route to their destination. However, their feelings of despair and frustration of marginalization, poverty and unemployment in their countries of origin, transit or asylum, are such that they are willing to risk everything for a chance, albeit slim, to reach wherever they aim.

  “There was a lot of information I did not know before I left Nigeria.” Tony continued.

  The grass would be greener. The sky would be bluer. I told myself.

  But the grass wasn't greener, and the sky was grey. Life in Libya was not palatable.

  Although I made money by taking up some sneaky jobs with which I sustained life, security was a major issue. I was lucky enough to avoid any personal problem but I feared that something would happen to me, that the police would arrest me, since foreigners were blamed for everything. The older generations were decent but the teenagers were problematic. They won’t let you pass by on the street. “Each time you make any movement in your dail
y life, like going to a shop, you will face a problem”.

  I spent two and a half months in Benghazi, before my arrest. While I was there a fellow Nigerian was battered to death by a wayward Libyan youth, in my presence. They had a little disagreement. My presence was noticed and a mob chased me in to the bush. I escaped.

  Then I suffered an attack of paranoid schizophrenia. I believed I was being monitored, that my thoughts were being broadcast to the police officers. I believed my every move was being recorded. There were holes on the streets caused by the dilapidated road network. I put my ear down to each hole listening for the mechanical buzz of automobiles. Undecided, I filled up each hole with a mixture of toothpaste and sand. I knew that what I was doing was odd, but I couldn't help it. The attack lasted only few days.

  “Tony I can understand”, I interrupted.

  “Libya continues to represent a non-viable location for short-term and to a larger extent long-term residence for some foreign nationals”, I continued.

  For many, their stay is overshadowed by racism, the constant risk of detention and ill-treatment, and possible deportation to