Writer and reporter Famous Phamous shares his experience in the hands of a frustrated Lagos Mob
That death is a journey, it’s not a lie. It’s just some truth tellers saying what they know not. On Monday, the 3rd of August, 2015, I had a true awe gust. I traveled to two worlds without leaving my place.
I had first hand, the
undiluted taste of the concoction called death. Not a sip but a gulp. I
wined with my ancestors but my progeny wouldn’t stop beckoning on me.
My name is Famous Phamous and this is my story…
I’m a writer. A reporter for not just the first but the
foremost campus-oriented, youth-focused weekly newspaper in Nigeria;
iCampus Newspaper, and I have a responsibility flanking my sides to
provide editorial content that serve the two purposes of information and
reformation.
In retrospect, earlier in March this year, I had a rather
unfortunate encounter with the men in black , who by a reason of mix-up,
practiced panel beating using my flesh as specimen. Like a hobo, I
could only do my best by talking my way out of their anti-tender iron
hands. They walked. With impunity and I talked. Without immunity but
vindictive.
After about one hundred and fifty days, history repeated
itself. This time, I was again a bystander, unconnected with the
business of the men in black, actually of many colours this time; who
paid an august visit in August to the nocturnal street traders of
popular Ikeja Along/Under the bridge bus/train station.
Goods worth hundreds of thousands were either confiscated
or utterly demolished by horde of men in varying uniforms who carried
out a clean sweep op against the defenseless civilians going about their
hustle for livelihood. An everyday lifestyle pertinent to the Lagos
Metropolis where traders camp around strategic points of massive human
contacts – men and women returning or going to work – to market their
products or services, as the case may be.
Consequently, chaos was the order. Everyone wailing and
weeping as they watched either their loved ones and goods being carted
away or their goods only. The latter was better and great fortune, for
them. With the remnants trampled and tables destroyed. Goods plundered,
emotions tumbled, lives shaken, hopes dashed, dreams shattered, virtues
tainted, businesses closed and sources of earning a living blocked, I
strode approaching the locale and my heart took the steering from my
head.
I stood there shocked, shaken and shut up. Speechless and
helpless. Instantly, the memories of the panel beating I underwent in
March gripped the man inside me. I took no action or reaction. None was
available.
Then it happened.
I saw an old woman whose bag of corn had been destroyed and
I felt Mr compassion pushed me at the back of my head and my feet,
lips, voice and every other part of me responded. “I’m a writer, I could
lend this woman a voice to cry with by directing her tears in black and
white in between drawn lines”, I had thought.
Next I approached a few complainants who were obviously
victims of the horrible ordeal and in minutes, I had a vox pop. Me and
my colleague, Ada, were no more bystanders but sympathizer. Empathisers.
Like a glorified Hollywood movie, everything happened so
fast I was on the run. Behind me was an angry mob. A collection of
angry, heartbroken, mistreated, bereaved and hungry mob took after me
shouting… “thief! thief!”
Like a billow, I was encompassed by floods of people all
ready to transfer the disappointments, loss and rancour of their spoilt
evening on my soft skin.
At that moment, when they caught up with me, I tried to
speak, to explain, but my mouth was numb. I was dumb. I heard lots of
mutterings. Scaring, no deadly suggestions like ‘bring tyre’, ‘tie am’
and ad infinitum. My fear graduated to advanced trepidation. ‘Rough
handling’ was a prayer for me but it was nothing compared. Every member
of the crowd wanted a piece of Me.
In deciding on what to do with me, a police Angel, and old
woman came to claim ownership of me.
She declared I was her esteemed
customer and that I was no thief. Of course I’m no thief.
In the end, with her voice and those of her disciples, I
was excused and they gave me up. Of course, not without exploiting any
and every valuable I had on me. I didn’t write this article from the
otherworld. I still cannot entirely wrap my mind around ‘how’ I
survived last night but I know now, for personal reality, what the
dictionary cannot define better: a miracle! It was great miracle.
Finally, while I’m alive and gratefully so, my heart still
goes out to the voiceless common people whose psychological, emotional,
financial, and physical states cannot remain the same. I feel your pain.
I share from your oppression and I wish you speeding recovery. All is
well.
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