The Base
The base is known as one of the most corrupt and illegal stations in the country. It is a place people only whisper about, and mothers threaten their stubborn kids that they will take them there if they misbehave.
A Hard Day's Work
That day, it was a cold evening and the breeze was so pleasant that Raya thought he should take a stroll. During the afternoon, the weather was like a furnace in hell — it was so hot that he had been swallowing spittle until his mouth was dry. He had drunk a ton of water, but that didn't help either. It was a rough day and he had been trying to get a labour job, so he had called his buddy Chucks about the gig.
"My main guy, work dey? [My main guy, is there work?]" he had asked, holding his breath to hear Chucks' reply. Chucks is that kind of guy who envies people a lot, and even if he heard there was a job in hell packing coal that would incinerate you — but the pay was good — he wouldn't even bother to let you know. So Raya held his breath as he heard Chucks sigh and then reply, "Why you dey disturb me? [Why are you disturbing me?]"
"My guy na me Raya oh. [My guy, it's me, Raya.]"
"So?" Chucks asked, sounding irritated.
"Any labour work dey? [Is there any labour work?]" Raya asked again.
Both of them were stark illiterates and they couldn't speak good English; most of the work they did was manual labour like working on construction sites.
"Work dey, [There is work,]" Chucks finally said.
"I dey come oh, [I'm on my way,]" Raya replied as he hung up.
He had hurried to the site, and it turned out the work was to erect street light poles. The sun was glaring down on him and he swore he could hear it laughing at him — the heat was so intense that any water he drank made his throat hiss with a bit of smoke coming out. He had never done the job before, but he quickly learned on the spot. His only worry was the burns on his palms, as the poles were very hot. He had asked for gloves but was told there were none, so he worked under the sun with burning hands. To make matters worse, they told him the pay was just ten thousand dollars. He was working hard, but soon he discovered he had no strength left — he was hungry and had no money to buy lunch, so he borrowed from a fellow worker, promising to pay back after the day's hustle.
Broken and Bare
When the work was done for the day, he sat down in a secluded corner and wept. It was so hard and back-breaking; he had burns on his hands and parts of his body where the poles had touched him as he carried them. He wept bitterly, knowing this kind of life would take him nowhere. When they were paid and he had cleared his debt to the co-worker he had borrowed from, he went back home, took his bath, and when the evening breeze blew, he went out to feel it on his skin. Knowing what he had gone through during the hot, sunny afternoon, he decided to take a stroll to clear his head and heal his mind.
He was walking along the street when a police van pulled up in front of him and about five officers jumped out, pointing guns at him.
"Hands in the air! If you do anyhow I go blow your head. [If you try anything, I'll blow your head off.]"
"Wetin I do na? [What did I do?]" he asked them.
That was how he received a hot slap and a kick on his back.
"Shut up! Carry your hand up or I go blow your head oh. [Put your hands up or I'll blow your head off,]" one of the officers said, cocking his gun.
Afraid for his life — knowing these men could do whatever they wanted since the government didn't care about the lives of its citizens — he complied by raising his hands. He watched with watery eyes as they frisked him and found nothing. They grew angry, and one of the officers slapped him again.
"Way the money? [Where is the money?]"
"Officer," he said with fear in his voice, "I no get money oh. [I don't have any money.]"
"Wetin that one mean? [What does that mean?]" another asked. "No be your mate them be big boys. [Your mates are big boys now.]"
"I no get money boss, [I don't have money, boss,]" he said, trying to appease them, but he could see that it only infuriated them, so he fell silent.
"Na who you dey call boss? [Who are you calling boss?]" the same officer asked.
"Sorry sir," Raya said, bowing low.
Then one of the officers looked at him and said, "Oya enter motor make we go station. [Get in the car, we're going to the station.]"
"But I no do anything na, [But I didn't do anything,]" Raya protested. That made them even angrier. They pointed the gun at his head and one of them fired a shot into the air, then pointed the gun back at Raya — nostrils flaring, breathing hard.
"If you no enter eh, I go blow your head with my next shot oh. [If you don't get in, I'll blow your head off with my next shot.]"
Raya had no choice. He entered the car and was sandwiched between two officers. One of them kept slapping him on the head.
"You no get money, you go see na. [You don't have money — you'll see what happens.]"
The Base
It was a short journey. As soon as he was brought out of the car, he got a hot slap across the face — he saw stars. When he covered his face, he was hit in the stomach with something he later discovered was a gun butt. He fell to the ground and a shadow fell over his face.
"Wetin you dey do for ground? Stand up quick. [What are you doing on the ground? Get up now.]"
He struggled to stand, and when he was on his hands and knees, a kick landed on his rear and he fell forward, his face hitting the rough ground. He heard them laughing.
"This guy go sabi fly oh, [This guy thinks he can fly,]" one of the officers said, grinning.
Raya lay there breathing hard, then gathered himself and asked, "Wetin I do officers? [What did I do, officers?]"
"You be thief. [You're a thief.]"
"But I no be thief oh. [But I'm not a thief.]"
"Shut up. If I say you be thief, you be thief," the same officer said.
"God forbid, I no be thief. [God forbid, I am not a thief.]"
"No be thief you dey thief before we arrest you? [Weren't you stealing before we arrested you?]"
"Na lie. I dey waka for road na una arrested me. [That's a lie. I was just walking on the road when you arrested me.]"
"Call your people oh, make them come bail you or na big trouble oh. [Call your people and tell them to come bail you out, or you'll be in serious trouble.]"
Raya had no choice, so he called his family. They couldn't even afford a lawyer, and were told to bring two hundred thousand dollars before he would be released. His father wept and sold some of his belongings to raise the money. Even Raya's ten thousand dollars from the day's work was added before he was finally let go.
He reached home and couldn't stop the tears flowing down his cheeks. It was so wicked — the very people paid to protect him had done this to him. He prayed they would meet their waterloo.
The Disgraced Journalist
Adam was a failed journalist. None of his stories had ever sold more than two copies. He had sworn this was the work of his enemies, but everyone knew he was bad with his mouth and couldn't control his temper. He had been given a chance to redeem his career by interviewing the minister, but he had blown it — and even punched the minister in the face when the man lied about the corruption in his office, calling Adam's fact-checking the equivalent of a baby trying to put on a diaper by itself. That had infuriated him and he had launched himself at the smug look on the minister's face. That had been the end of his journalism career, and so he had switched to Private Investigation.
Adam was not a remarkable man at thirty-five. He lived like a street urchin — tall with a hard face and a scar under his right eye from a knife fight during one of his investigations. He loved booze and women. Say what you want about him, but he could take care of himself in a fight.
He had heard much about the police base that conducted indiscriminate arrests and extorted money from citizens. He had cornered most of the victims to hear their stories, and when he took them to his old buddies at the newspaper, they had laughed at him. The manager had said, "Bring evidence and I'll run it — no strings attached." So he had snuck into the base to poke around, until he tripped an alarm on what he had thought would be an easy job.
Into the Dark
The compound was surrounded by a low fence that reached his chest. He had watched the officers and shaken his head — they were undisciplined. He had slipped in simply by climbing the fence. He was making his way to the main building when he spotted something odd happening just around a turn to his right. He moved slowly, keeping to the darkness, and witnessed the brutality the officers meted out to their victims. He recorded it — you could hear the victims pleading for mercy even though they were innocent.
Everything had been going fine until his phone rang. The sound alerted the officers, who gave chase. He ran, but spotted more officers standing by the fence and stopped, shifting into the shadow.
"Did you see him?" Patrick, one of the officers who had been chasing him, asked the one standing by the fence.
"No. Everywhere is locked tight — he will not smell the sun," Patrick said, cocking his gun.
"Good. I'm glad you get the point," the other officer said, eyes still scanning the area.
Adam spotted a trench surrounded by used sandbags. He followed its length and could see it led to the fence. He crept silently into the trench and fell on a body. He froze. In the dim light, he could make out a face stirring from a slumber.
"Aaron, is that you?" the voice slurred.
Adam could smell the alcohol and shook his head — men on duty, drunk to stupor.
"No, I'm not Aaron," he replied.
"Then who are you?"
"I was just passing by and I smell murder on the commander, so I figured this was the best place to hide."
"You're lucky you escaped. That man is a mean bastard," the drunk said.
"Yeah. Seems he loves torturing people and extorting them."
"Yeah. The bastard also has dealings with those who buy human parts."
"Are you serious?"
"As serious as a heart attack," the drunk said.
"What is your name?" Adam asked.
"Dickson."
"Why not report him, Dickson? Or are you part of the deal?"
At this, Dickson laughed, and Adam cringed — he hoped no one could hear the hollow sound. He looked up, checking whether anyone was peering down into the trench.
"I swore to protect humanity, but what I've seen in this base," Dickson sighed, "is something I can never get out of my head — hence the drinking. And to answer your question, I'm never part of them."
"So why not report them?"
"Who would believe me? I'm just a corporal with no clearance to even see the most senior officer here. So how would I make my report?"
"To the press. You can go anonymous."
"It is hopeless. This country is worse than one with a civil war. Trust me — those in authority don't care about those who are suffering."
"And the racket going on here?" Adam asked.
"The police can't investigate itself and bring out the rot. They'll cover it up, and the best they can do is transfer the commanders to another base where the same thing will start all over again."
"What do you suggest?"
"The rot starts from the top. As long as there is no justice, nothing will ever change in this country."
"How so?" Adam asked.
"Can a poor man take a minister to court and win?" Dickson asked.
"No," Adam replied.
"See. If a poor man could beat a rich man in court — if a poor man could call out the president for accountability and actually win — then you'd see that change is possible. But not when a poor man who cries about bad government finds himself in a cell, or worse, in this base with all manner of torture dropped on him."
There was quiet. Adam could see the conversation had made Dickson thirsty. He watched him fumble for a bottle that had been hidden from sight earlier, then take a long, deep drink before offering one to Adam, who declined.
"You're missing out," Dickson said, grinning.
"Thank you. I'll pass."
Just then, they heard dogs barking.
No Way Out
Adam froze. He knew it was over — there was no way those dogs would not sniff him out. He was about to throw caution to the wind and make a break for the fence when he felt a hand stop him.
"You in trouble?" Dickson asked.
"Yes. I need to get out of here now."
"Sure. Follow the trench to the end and feel along the bottom of the fence — you'll find a slab of rock cut into it. Just push it and you'll be out."
"Thank you," he said.
"Don't thank me yet until you're out. And by the way — making what you find public will be thanks enough."
"You're not mad if this place gets exposed?"
"Nah. I was thinking of levelling it myself, but I don't have the strength to leave my booze alone in this wicked world."
Adam hurried to the slab of stone at the end of the trench and pushed. He froze again as the silence of the night was broken by the grinding roar of stone on stone. He heard the dogs barking and thought he could hear them getting closer. He pushed with all his strength, but after that first shift, it wouldn't budge.
Commander No Mercy
Commander No Mercy was furious — so furious he had it in him to start shooting at his own men.
How can they be so stupid? he thought. If this fool escaped, they would all be done for. This base was home to him. This is where he lived; this is where his heart had always been. The stench of blood and rot always made him feel alive, and when his victims begged him — oh, how the music of their pleading made him feel like he was on top of the world. He had been roped into the business of extortion by the previous commander, and what a good thing it had been for him. It had made him rich. Some of those politicians patronized him — either to silence their opponents or to seek human parts to renew their spiritual powers. He had been untouchable.
And now some brat had snuck in and gotten information he was never supposed to have.
No way is he letting him go.
Then he heard the noise.
"HE IS IN THE TRENCH!" he bellowed. "Get your feet moving now! Don't let the sucker off or you will all pay!"
He watched as his men scrambled, but he knew deep down it would be too late. He returned to his office, waiting for the good news — or the bad.
Author's Note:
This story is part real-life experience and part fiction. Most people in the world don't know about dirty cops and how they are a stain on society — or about the systems that protect them due to a broken justice system, or one that is dead altogether. There are countless people facing one problem after another simply because a cop branded them, and they have no one to fight for them. I want to use this opportunity to draw your attention to this — so if you are a lawyer, consider volunteering for the sake of the helpless. And if you are not, share this story. Sometimes the loudest weapon against injustice is simply making sure more people know it exists. Thank you.
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