One Sunday night, about twenty years ago, I suffered a terrible fate. Robbers, numbering about eight and armed to the teeth with shotguns and rifles, stormed my residence. In the Nigeria of that time (And even the Nigeria of today!), this is not a strange occurrence. Even if I’d been shot to death after being robbed on that fateful day, it still wouldn’t have been a strange thing.
People are often robbed and killed in very violent and rather amazing circumstances in our dear country. The Nigeria Police Force, I must say, are doing their best in spite of the several odds piled against them; poor pay, bad vehicles, inadequate arms, poor communication equipment and all what not. So many times, I wonder what it would be like in this country if the Nigeria Police Force were not there at all, to do the little they are doing.
And so, when the lords of the night stepped into my living room at about 8.00pm that Sunday, I hadn’t found it strange at all. In fact, I probably wouldn’t have experienced the kind of fear and trepidation that I suffered, if only I’d been all alone in the house. But then, the sight of a rifle held to my wife’s head and the sight of my kids as they watched the unfolding drama reduced me to a whimpering, spineless lump of jelly.
Just a day before the robbers called at my place, I’d been regaled with tales of the operations of armed robbers in different places in recent times. A friend had told me how he’d been dumped in the trunk of his car and driven all over Lagos before the car was finally abandoned. Another friend had regaled us with the story of how a bride and groom, in their wedding apparels, on their way to the marriage registry, had been robbed of the borrowed Mercedes Benz 500 SEL that was carrying them.
And yet another fellow had told us how he’d been given a thorough beating because of the contributions he made at the monthly meeting of the residents association of his neighbourhood. Top on the agenda of the meeting was the issue of security and the fellow in question had made very brilliant contributions on how to check the menace of robbers in the neighbourhood.
Just two days later, he’d been waylaid on his way to work by some armed robbers. He was shocked out of his wits when the robbers told him all that he’d said at the residents’ association meeting. They went on to derisively call him such nicknames as ‘Mr Too Know,’ ‘Ray Power 100F.M,’ ‘Mr Loudspeaker.’ After this, they dealt him some vicious slaps, twisted his tongue and extracted two of his teeth. They then left him with a warning that he would lose his life, should he make such contributions at such meetings in the future. Need I tell you, our friend, lucky to escape alive, became the quietest person in his neighbourhood thereafter.
I’d found some of those stories quite amusing. But that fateful night as the robbers held my family hostage, I didn’t find it in the least funny. Again, I must thank God that they left without harming anyone, after carting away money and valuables. But some others have not been so lucky in the hands of the men of the underworld. A couple of weeks ago, I received a mail from one such unlucky person. He is an avid reader of this column. A thirty five year old man whose life and family have been thrown into complete disarray after one dark fateful night…His travail moved me to tears and I feel a strong compulsion to publish the unedited letter on this page…
Read Also:
Dear Kayode Ajala,
I write you, not because we have been friends and have known each other for a long time. I write, not because we are long time acquaintances. But I write as a distant admirer, as someone who has followed your good work in journalism over the years. I cannot now begin to recall all I’ve learned and gained from your thoughtful pieces published over the years. My situation is not even right. The condition in which I find myself presently is not right for me to begin to pour encomiums on you or anyone else for that matter.
Don’t get bored and throw this letter in the trash can if it begins to sound like the product of a demented mind. The truth is that I’m confused, depressed and on the brink of insanity. I don’t even know what I hope to gain by writing to you in this manner. You are not a psychologist, are you? I know, for sure, that you are also not a psychiatrist. So, why then am I writing to you? What succour do I hope to get from this exercise? I truly don’t know. I suppose I’m beginning to go out of my mind, or is it that I’ve even totally gone out of my mind? Honestly, I wonder…And it has been so since that dark fateful night.
I would never forget that night when my wife and I ran into the men of the underworld on the expressway. That terrible night when we found ourselves and our one year old baby girl completely at their mercy…That dark fateful night when the men of the underworld capsized the smooth sailing boat of my life…That night when…
For you to understand my pain and sorrow, I think it would only be right to tell you a little bit about myself. I am a thirty five year old Yoruba man, educated, good looking and comfortable by Nigerian standards. I work as an Assistant Manager in one of the new generation banks and got married five years ago after a lot of pressure from my aging parents. As far as my parents were concerned, thirty was too old an age to get married. They wanted grand children from me and turned on the heat so much that I had to do something about their request.
I met my lovely wife, Tinu, at just about the time when I’d made up my mind to get married. She was all I wanted in a woman and that, coupled with the pressure from my parents, led to a whirlwind courtship that lasted just six months before we walked down the aisle. If I thought that my marriage to Tinu would make the heat from my parents ease off, I soon realised how wrong I was! Rather than abate, the pressure became more intense as months dragged into years and the children simply refused to come. Initially, this situation didn’t quite bother me, I was sure that the Almighty God would bless us with children in His own time.
I had the assurances of medical experts that my wife and I were in perfect condition and that the children would soon begin to arrive. I however began to fret, even more than my distraught wife when in the fourth year of our marriage, we were still childless. By this time, my parents had become so impatient and desperate that they had begun to insinuate that Tinu was barren and that I should take another wife. Something had to be done! It was about this time that a friend introduced my wife and I to the idea of having an Intro Vitro Fertilisation (IVF) done. He also went on to introduce us to an American hospital where the process could be successfully carried out. Without much ado, Tinu and I latched on to the idea and not minding the strain on our finances, we pulled out all stops to have an Intro Vitro Fertilisation (IVF) performed.
It was successful and the result was a baby girl who was my exact replica. That baby girl was my joy, my pride, my existence practically revolved around her. She was so cute and beautiful. We named her Ayomide. My parents? Oh, they were as happy as we were at the arrival of Ayomide. And predictably, the pressure on us, to have a child, eased off a bit. But it was just a bit because they still wouldn’t let an opportunity pass to remind us to hurry up and give them more grand-children, especially a male child.
But let’s leave all that, one dark fateful night, my wife and I were returning from a trip to Ibadan. We’d left Ibadan where we’d gone to attend a family gathering just as dusk was approaching. We were approaching Lagos and it was already dark when the car began to jerk. We were actually on the long bridge towards the Lagos end of the expressway when the engine of the car finally coughed, spluttered and died. I managed to pull over as a cold chill ran through me. I remembered all the fearful tales that I’d been told about armed robbers and their exploits on that axis of the expressway. I was in a dilemma, so was my wife who sat beside me. On the back seat, Ayomide, our one year old baby, slept peacefully.
I was still thinking of what to do when a car pulled up in front of our faulty car and out came four barrel chested men. Momentarily, I thought help had come. How wrong I was! Armed robbers! They hit me with the butt of a gun and shoved me out of the car. Same treatment was meted out on my hapless wife. In all this, my thoughts were riveted on Ayomide who continued to sleep peacefully on the back seat of the faulty car. I pleaded with the robbers to spare us but they only unleashed more violence which left my wife and I in a bloodied, helpless heap on the tarred road. Then, before I could say Jesus is Lord! They grabbed the sleeping baby from the back seat, jumped into their car and sped off into the thick night.
Thus began the nightmare that has refused to end…days have crawled into weeks and weeks into months, Ayomide has not been found either dead or alive. Since that night, I have not been myself ditto for my wife, Tinu. Daily, friends and neighbours visit to console us…But how can anyone in our situation be consoled? Help tell my story…maybe help would come therefrom…Just help.
Your sorrowful follower,
Ade.
That’s the letter… How indeed does one console anyone in such a situation? If this touches you and you’d like to drop a word, please mail your response to [email protected]
