Day 1: A Regular Friday Night in Agege
My name is Loko. Lagos boy to the core. Born and raised in Mushin. Son of a pastor—though, to be honest, my parents are disappointed in me. I stopped telling them things when I turned 25.
I’m a cook. A damn good one. I’ve worked for some big names in Lagos, feeding the powerful. But this story isn’t about that.
This story is about how I spent 11 days in Kirikiri.
It started on a Friday. I was in Agege to learn a trade from a friend. No electricity all night, phones and laptops dead. Saturday morning came, and it was environmental sanitation—no movement for a few hours. But we needed fuel. Thirty minutes before the restriction was over, my friend and I decided to head out.
What could happen in five minutes?
The Arrest
The filling station was closed. As we walked back home, two sienna cars and a Kowope bus pulled up. Police.
“Enter the motor,” one officer barked. No questions, no explanations. We obeyed.
The car moved, picking up more people along the way. They transferred us to the Kowope. Four officers. Two had guns.
As we drove, two policemen jumped out, chasing some guys down the street. That left two officers with us—one driving, the other hanging on the bus.
I saw an opening. My friend was beside me. I gave him a signal. He nodded.
I struck.
Two legs. One hit. The officer fell hard. I jumped out, expecting my friend to follow.
But he FROZE.
I kept shouting, “Let’s go!” But he didn’t move. I hesitated. That split-second cost me everything.
The officer I knocked down grabbed my leg. I hit the ground hard. We struggled. I broke free. Just as I turned to run—GBAM!
The butt of a gun slammed into my face.
Everything went black.
Court and a Sentence I Didn’t Deserve
When I woke up, I was already in court. Dizzy. Beaten.
The officers were talking. Lying. Accusing me of things I never did. They brought in a policeman with bullet wounds—and somehow, I was responsible?!
The judge barely looked at me before announcing, “Two years. No bail.”
Kirikiri. Just like that.
First Night in Prison
It was Saturday. We weren’t even officially registered yet. Just dumped in a mini-prison inside Kirikiri.
Pain everywhere. My face swollen from the gun hit. My ribs ached. My friend arrived later—still in shock. He didn’t talk. I had to take care of him even though I was barely holding on myself.
Then I saw someone with a phone. Hope.
We begged. My friend’s mum picked up. The call lasted seconds. The guy snatched his phone back—his condition was simple: whoever we called had to send ₦2,000 airtime.
We pleaded. Called again. This time, she sent ₦5,000. The next day, she came with her navy son.
They bailed my friend. But I was still stuck.
The Next 11 Days
Prison life is another world. You don’t ask questions. You just survive.
No food unless someone brought for you. No one to call. No hope.
My parents? They had no idea. And I wasn’t about to tell them.
Days blended into each other. Every hour felt like a year.
Then, on the 11th day—freedom.
Someone managed to get me out. To this day, I don’t know exactly who pulled the strings, but I walked out of Kirikiri alive.
Years Later… The Pain Remains
It took me five years to tell my parents. Even then, I didn’t tell them everything.
Till today, I don’t trust the police. How can I?
I’ve seen how easy it is to go from a regular guy to a criminal in their eyes.
All it takes is being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Nigeria needs to do better. But will it ever?
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