Four men, one barrel and two bags

Nothing prepared me for that occasion, and I guess nothing ever prepares you for it. Time was around 7.38 pm as I strutted down a street in the GRA part of Ikeja, Lagos. I had just left an eatery where I spent the previous three hours or so filing a feature article to the deputy editor of the Saturday desk of my newspaper. I had been running around, almost in circles all day, gathering material for an article I had to file same day otherwise I simply forget it. Uppermost on my mind at the time, therefore, was the thought of getting home as soon as possible, take a bath, eat dinner, watch some TV, if possible, and then hit the sack. Such was the jaded nature of my body and mind that I desperately sought to catch the most efficient, if most dangerous form of transport in Lagos – commercial motorcycle (okada).

The first few okada I tried to hail down either had a passenger already or they wouldn’t just go my way, so I decided to walk on in the hope that I would catch one eventually. There was obviously no hint of danger and although I didn’t know GRA that much, the street I was walking down at did not carry any hint of what was to hit me (if they ever carry any that is) – well-paved road, perimeter/electric fences, tightly-locked gates, bla bla. But then it happened. Around the middle of the long street (more than 400 metres), I saw an okada dropping off a passenger. There was also another one about 20 metres from the first one, also dropping of a passenger. From across the road I hailed “PWD,” the name of the bus stop where I was going to board another okada or bus, towards my home. Unlike the others, this okada beckoned on me but was also rummaging in his pocket for what I thought was change for his passenger.

Then I fell for it and crossed the road to meet him as the other okada man was asking if he (my okada man) could spare him N40 change. His own passenger came towards us and I thought he was coming for the N40, so I just turned towards my okada man. In split seconds I was starring at the barrel of a locally made pistol. The ‘passenger’ had crept from behind me and grabbed my shoulder, holding the pistol to my face. “Give me the bag,” he barked. I handed him my laptop bag which had no laptop in it but had my digital camcorder, my ID card, some money, my tape recorder, a few books etc. “Where is the money,” he barked again. “I don’t have any money I said,” as he tried to frisk the side pockets of the jeans trouser I wore. I kept shifting back tapping his hands away and then just dug my hand into one of my back pockets and brought out some money, which I threw on the ground as I stepped further away. Quickly, he bent down and picked the money. By then the other okada had turned his bike towards where I was coming from while the other ‘passenger,’ the one who had been on the okada I flagged down, crossed the road and mounted the bike as Mr. Gun jumped on ‘my’ okada and they sped off. Only then did I manage to shout “ole, ole,” prompting some of the guards in some of the houses on the street to come out. But it was too late. The deed was done. I immediately put a call across to the state police public relations officer who in turn urged me to report the incident at the Ikeja Police Station.

Funny though, at the police station, as I was writing my statement/complaint, another man came in to report that he, too, had just been robbed of his laptop (an official laptop he had just been given, having just been employed newly) right in the middle of a traffic slow-down in the same GRA. From his description of the man with the gun, I suspect it was the same gang that did the job on me. And as we walked out of the station and my partner in distress carried on complaining, I just kept thinking of the irony of it all. Here I was, a crime reporter who has often felt so much pity for some suspected robbers, especially those on okada to the extent that I have had to wonder if the police were not been too fussy with some of the arrests. To think I had so helplessly fallen victim to the people I have always felt such pity for.

Come to think of it, I have often wondered how robbery victims, especially the on-the-road-and-at-gunpoint ones felt. Well, as I walked on silently that night, I had my long sought answer – drained, befuddled, benumbed, breathless, helpless, maybe even slightly touch-and-go, edgy and tetchy, but grateful it didn’t get any worse.