A short hop to freedom (aka Straight Outta Juba)

Hola peeps.

 

Welcome to 2024. I won’t make any promises about the frequency of my blog entries this year, but I am confident it will be better than 2023’s. You see, the problem with last year was not for a lack of stuff to write about, it was plain otiosity. I have been working on myself to curb procrastination, and though it’s early days the results have been good.

 

Now, I no longer bother myself at the end of the workday if uncompleted tasks are greater than they were at the start of the day. Once I am convinced I wasn’t whiling away for most of the day, I cut myself slack and prepare for the next day. For example, it’s currently 1722hrs (Juba time) on Sunday January 21^st. By now I shoulda published this blog entry and commenced my 10-page minimum read of An Immense World . I was done shaving, after calisthenics and kickboxing classes, by 11am, but chose to swim and lie in the sun for a bit instead of immediately diving into writing this blog. Why? ‘Ços. I enjoyed lounging by the pool so much I might make it part of my Sunday morning regimen. Greatly helps that church in Juba decided upon Saturday evening services this year, ‘cos I used to feel awful for falling asleep during Sunday morning services. But seriously, what did I expect after two consecutive sessions of calisthenics and kickboxing separated by an hour of rest before church? Told y’all I have been working on myself.

 

How’s your 2024 been so far? Any goals set? Any goals already accomplished? I reckon all signs are pointed towards my involvement in the music industry in 2024. For the past 2 days I have been struggling through a bad cough that’s made my voice sound like a cross between Darth Vader and Optimus Prime. While searching YouTube for more fallouts from the Katt Williiams’ interview with Shannon Sharpe, I happened upon a collection of Barry White’s greatest hits and realized I’d make a passable impersonation of his singing voice and release posthumous recordings that keep the conspiracy theorists guessing about his death, a la Tupac shouting out present-day rappers in songs released decades after his death.

 

Another sure sign that I am pursuing the music route was time I spent in a Juba jail on Monday January 15^th, 2024. If that ain’t sufficient street cred in the 90s to oughts gangsta rap genre I don’t know what is.

 

You know how as a kid you would marvel at how a movie’s protagonist – picture Bruce Willis in Die Hard – would always keep his sense of humour in the most dangerous of scenarios, and wonder if you’d do the same in similar circumstances? Ladies and gentlemen, I am glad to inform you your childhood selves can now live vicariously through me.

 

Last Monday, I flew in on the morning flight from Nairobi and was the first person in immigration line. Perks of business class travel, baby!!! As I am desperately short on passport pages, I greeted the immigration officer with the widest smile possible and pleaded with her to find a spot on a semi-filled passport page for the entry stamp. She obliged. As I attempted to walk towards luggage carousel after hand luggage was searched, she called me back and requested for passport. Passport was handed to her supervisor, who directed me to a waiting room.

 

My first thought was that she had noticed I had fewer than six empty passport pages, so would be subject to a $50 fine, as I have heard being applied to others in the past. While calculating how much I would have to fork over over the coming months until I can get a new passport in Nigeria, I was summoned to the back of the airport that housed the police station. Okay, what’s going on? The officer in charge asked if I knew a J.S. (name withheld to protect the very guilty), and that’s when I kinda, sorta figured what might be up…..

 

Gotta call for an intermission here to go brush teeth. I just realized I didn’t brush my teeth this morning as I hurried to calisthenics class. I stayed up last night watching the NFL playoffs and snoozed 6am alarm when it went off. Startled up when it dawned on me I had less than 10 minutes to make a 12-minute drive. This is redolent of other time I was late for kickboxing class and only figured I didn’t wear underwear under teeny weeny Muy Thai shorts when I got to class. My normally weak roundhouse kicks were even feebler to avoid exposing my balls to all and sundry. Brb….

 

Sorry, I took longer than planned. Had to microwave peppered guineafowl I brought along from Lagos. To be honest, one of my foremost concerns after I was transported to the police station directly from the airport was if the thawed peppered bird in luggage would still be edible. Priorities, eh?

 

First, some background on J.S.: My South Sudanese partners have certain management positions that are assigned to them based on the MOU. J.S. was seconded to one of these roles back in 2022. Sadly, sometimes these roles are not decided on merit and that appeared to be the case with J.S. “Incompetent” would not quite describe how dire this dude was. He hardly showed up for work and never did the barest minimum, even when we paid a consultant to train him. Once I realized what I was up against, I made formal complaints to the partners several times until he was finally replaced last month. Always wondered why his fellow indigenous colleagues never cautioned him or spoke about his shortcomings to his face. Now I know. Had heard something about his in-laws being zol kebir, but that never bothered me. All I wanted from the dude was to carry out the tasks he was paid to do. I never paid mind to his direct and indirect threats over the years until I was shown an arrest warrant at the airport. Charges? Unpaid wages amounting to $44,000. I wish I was kidding.

 

After my passport was seized, I directed my deputy (also from the South Sudan partners) to inform his CEO of my predicament. I was arrested at the airport at 745am and released nearly 11 hours later without any representative from the partners showing up. Towards the end of last year, for the first time ever, I started mulling how much longer I could live in South Sudan. With the protracted project delays and staff issues, I felt it was time for a change. The lack of support shown by my partners last week has sealed my decision. I was reminded that that though I have spent almost a decade in this place, I would always be regarded as a foreigner and treated as such. No way a South Sudanese would have been arrested and jailed under false pretenses without evidence. Okay, enough of my Academy Award-nominated soliloquy. Here's a play-by-play account of what is bound to be the most intriguing chapter in my autobiography….

 

By the time I was informed of the arrest warrant issued against me, my junior colleague had arrived at the airport to pick me up. I directed him to the police station from the airport car park. Once he arrived, he, the police officer in charge, and J.S. conversed in Arabic for circa 10 minutes. I was told I had to go to the police station for my statement to be taken, and then I would be released while J.S.’s claim is investigated. If only it was that simple.

 

Informed my company’s legal adviser to meet us at the station, but he didn’t show up until almost an hour later. Not that it would have mattered though, ‘cos after he arrived he had to let the police complete their “process”. The start of this process involved my sitting on the floor, crouched in the middle of three lines with other inmates. Yup, this is the tried and tested guilty-until-proven-innocent course that one never sees on Law and Order. Wait, I skipped a step. As soon as I got to the police station, my name was taken down, and I was told to hand my belongings to my junior colleague before being ushered towards the cells. Huh? What happened to being released after statement is taken?! By the way, you haven’t lived until multiple persons attempt to write your full Yoruba name in Arabic. It was hilarious.

 

Turns out I arrived at the station in time for the roll call of prisoners, hence, the aforementioned butt on floor experience. With all inmates crouched closely together, once one’s name is called, one motions, gets up and heads towards the cells; while others seated on the floor bunch up closer to occupy space left by the guy called up. This lasted for about an hour, once you consider that female prisoners were also part of the roll call. While on the floor I kept telling God I didn’t wanna be sent to the cells. I thought my prayers were answered once I sighted the lawyer. As if.

 

Once everyone else was called, I was summoned, and my name taken down in two separate books. Again, you had to be there.

Police offer 1: Isim munu?

Me: Babatunde

Police offer 2: Ba-ba-tun-dwe?

Me: Babatunde. B-a-b-a-t-u-n-d-e

I notice both officers spell my name differently in Arabic. Gave up trying to correct them.

 

While on the floor a guy seated to my left asked me what I was in for. Told him a disgruntled former employee made up a false charge against me for unpaid wages. He wondered why I was arrested since this was not a criminal matter but a civil one. Told me he was being held for something similar, but the claimant wants $200,000. Yikes. As I was being directed behind the counter and towards the cells, I spotted this dude and asked him to show me the ropes. I observed him squeezing cash into the palm of a policeman and he said I would need to hand over something to avoid getting put in the “bad cell”, i.e., the cell on the left with violent criminals. Told him my wallet was with my colleague and promised to reimburse him if he pays my way. Within a minute of this conversation, they instruct us to move into the cells, and that’s when I start hyperventilating. Probably caused by low blood sugar. I got dizzy and nauseous, while sweat poured profusely from top of my head.

 

The last time this happened was last November, in Lagos, after completing a 17km walk. I went to the barbers afterwards without hydrating or eating, and less than 5 minutes in the chair the apron secured around neck started feeling awfully tight and uncomfortable. Cue the sweats, nauseousness, and doodle pangs. Weirdly, the time before that that I exhibited similar symptoms was in January 2023, in the same barber’s chair. That was the start of a serious bout of food poisoning that took me 3 days to recover from. The symptoms were so bad I left without completing haircut. I dashed into the car, hurriedly drove myself home and clenched butt real tight until I let loose in the bedroom toilet. There was splatter on the floor, the doorknob, everywhere! That’ll teach me to consume dates bought from a wooden wheelbarrow in Lagos without washing them first.

 

My jail plug tried to alert the prison officers when he saw me stagger. The officers offered me some water and fanned me until I recovered….yeah right. I was forced into the “good cell”, where I tried to avoid stepping on people lying on the floor. One prisoner instructed me to take off shoes to avoid soiling the cardboard placed across the floor. I was directed towards the rightmost corner at the back of the cell, and found myself beside a guy with cuffed ankles, no shirt and loose-fitting brown shorts. Wasn’t this supposed to be the cell with non-violent inmates? What is a guy with shackled feet doing here?!

 

As I struggled to control my breathing in the hope of reducing the sweats and not triggering a bout of poop, I recalled that during the November 2023 incident I sprinted out the barber’s chair, sat on the steps and calmed down by slowing my breathing as the barber doused water over my head. Back then, I was able to return to the chair to complete the haircut, and successfully made the 10-minute walk from the barbers to my apartment without soiling my pants.

 

It took 15 to maybe 20 minutes until my breathing got back to normal. I started taking in my new surroundings, a 8ft by 11ft cell with fourteen other people. I hear someone being beaten in the “bad cell”. One guy in my cell tries to observe the action by grabbing hold of the bars across the 2 sq ft window between the cells and lifting himself up. I ignore him, and concentrate on praying to God to help me forgive J.S. When that didn’t work I found things to thank God for: the fact that I got arrested on my way into the country and not on way out, where entire travel plans woulda been scuttled; that I got arrested on a Monday morning instead of a Friday evening, when I might have had to spend a weekend in jail before being bailed; that I had sufficient airtime on phone to contact colleagues; and mostly, that I didn’t have any doodle pangs.

 

Speaking of the last part, I remember my last early morning trip from Nairobi to Juba where I was seated beside a Naija acquaintance who works for the World Health Organization (WHO). I dunno what I ate the night before ‘cos my farts were so loose that I would let a silent one out then hope against hope it didn’t stink. When that failed, I’d scrunch up nose and tilt head from side to side pretending to be searching for the source of the stench. Ah, such good times. Okay, back to our regularly scheduled blog topic.

 

The luckiest guys in my cell were those closest to the cell gate as they had greater access to air. Some guys stood, while others like me crouched on the floor so the guys across from them could stretch out their legs. They would then take turns crouching and stretching. Only the guy with the ankle cuffs was allowed to stretch unhindered. Pun not intended.

 

Someone with money would get food or cigarettes delivered and freely share same with the others. Two guys in the cell paid to have their phones smuggled in with them and readily allowed others to make calls. It was all so utopian, if the surroundings weren’t so dire. Every now and then, someone’s name would get called, the cell gate opened, and they would leave, only to return later. When an Ethiopian guy returned to the cell he informed me I’d be called next. The officer came to the cell gate and tried to pronounce my name. Cue laughter. He ended up signaling for “Nigeria” to come forward. The name stuck, so much so that after I returned to the cell after my statement was taken everyone called me Nigeria.

 

Oh yes, the statement. The officer who pulled me from the cell to the office where my statement was taken attempted in the little English he understood to get money off me. By the way, everyone was on the take. The investigating officer didn’t understand English so summoned an interpreter, who asked to be compensated before he commenced his job. I assured him he would be taken care of. I tried as best as possible to explain to the officers that J.S. was not owed any money, and even if he was, it is the company that should be held accountable, not me. After about 15 minutes of whatever I said being hopefully recorded accurately in Arabic, I was asked to sign the statement and the interpreter escorted me to my lawyer.

 

The lawyer suggests we pay J.S. the $44,000 he claimed he is owed. I argue vehemently against that. After some back and forth he and my deputy convince me that they have agreed with the public prosecutor to deposit half of that amount with the police as bond to secure my release. Thereafter, J.S. would meet with my deputy and the lawyer to review his claims. Sounded good to me. Anything to avoid returning to the cell.

 

As I am a signatory to the company accounts, I was allowed to proceed with deputy to the office to approve withdrawal of the funds from the bank. The police officer that was assigned to accompany us ensured I sat in the back seat of the car, between my deputy and the lawyer, to prevent my “easy escape”. Unbelievable. During the short drive from the police station to the office, I briefed the Nigerian embassy in Juba and my company in Nigeria on my predicament.

 

Remember how I told you everyone was on the take? The dude who escorted us to withdraw the $22,000 requested compensation from my deputy and the lawyer once we returned to the station. After their appeals to wait until the matter was resolved fell on deaf ears, they offered him something he deigned as beneath him, so he stormed off in a huff. This was to come back to bite us, well, me, ‘cos the police changed their mind on seeing the $22,000 and requested that $44,450 – the amount J.S. claimed to be owed - be provided as cash bond instead. Efforts to arrive at a compromise proved abortive, so guess who shows up to march me to the cell? Mr High and Mighty escort himself. He is in his element now, raising his voice while forcing me towards the “bad cell”. I tell him I was previously locked up in the “good cell”, he does not care. He relishes the opportunity to exact his revenge for my colleagues’ failure to compensate him adequately for doing the job he is already paid to do.

 

As I am pushed into the “bad cell” I recall the scream from earlier of someone being beaten. As I brace myself for this, I try to remember any kickboxing defensive techniques. I quickly get rid of that thought as there’s no way I am defending myself against a gazillion guys in a confined space. This time, my shoes are off before I enter the cell. I can’t make out any bodies for the first 10 seconds as the place is uber dark. Some guy walks up to me and starts searching my pockets for money. I assure him I have none. He then taps me on the head and takes my shoes. I don’t struggle. As he tries to harass me again, some guy takes my shoes off him, hands them to me and directs me to the darkest corner of the room. This cell is packed! I barely have any room to squat. I notice no shackled prisoners, though.  No one has a contraband phone, either. I keep praying for God to help me forgive J.S. Some guy comes around sharing peanuts with peeps. I tell him I am fine. He convinces me to take some, I politely decline. He steps away.

 

Some 20-25 minutes later, Nigeria is summoned to the cell gate. I struggle to get there. It’s my junior colleague who met me at the airport. He asks if I need water or anything. I hand him my shoes and tell him I am okay. As he walks away I realize I might be spending the night here and regret not requesting for drinking water for the other inmates. While using the opportunity to get as much air as possible before returning to the back of the cell, the guy beside me directs his cigarette smoke away from me. He asks for my name and why I was removed from the good cell. This guy’s probably 10 years younger than me, but I call him sir. He wants to know more about J.S. Look, at this point, if he had asked for my ATM PIN I woulda freely offered it.

 

As I am about to embark on the ballad of how I got put behind bars, one of the police officers opens the gate, and asks me to sit behind the counter. After 5 mins I get directed to his boss’s office where my colleagues and the lawyer are seated. The boss tells us we need to raise the full bond amount before he closes at 5pm, else he would have no choice but to confine me until the morning. With an hour left to the deadline and banks closed for the day, I reached out to everyone I know to help raise the funds. Once we confirmed we had sufficient funds we asked for a 30-minute extension to have the cash brought to the police station. He gracefully acquiesced to our request.

 

After counting $44,500 in cash, the replacement officer on night duty insisted on documenting the serial numbers to prevent any accusations of theft or replacement of genuine notes with fakes. It took a further 10 minutes to convince him of an alternative. The cash was placed in a sealed, embossed envelope until the following day, when my deputy and the lawyer witnessed the documenting of serial numbers of 445 $100 notes. The peak of excitement, surely.

 

After my deputy agreed to be a surety for me, the officers who took down his details also requested for “facilitation”. I left the police station at precisely 1817hrs. Got home, ensured the peppered guineafowl was still good, and ate a piece without bothering to heat it. Unpacked, showered, then wrote a long email to my partners detailing how I was falsely arrested by their staff. I asked for several assurances going forward, but it don’t matter if they agree to them or not. I am done here.

 

Tot ziens and God bless.