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Jailed from age 13 till 60
I grew up in Maiduguri, Borno State capital. At thirteen I was already helping my father after school. He farmed sugarcane, and every afternoon I would load a wheelbarrow he rented for just twenty kobo, stack the canes carefully, and push it through the streets selling.
One scorching afternoon the heat was the kind only people who have lived up north truly understand. I was searching for any scrap of shade under a tree when my wheelbarrow clipped a parked car near the garage entrance. The headlight shattered. Fear hit me hard. My first instinct was to run, but something inside refused. I stood there thirty full minutes holding the broken piece, waiting.
The owner had been praying inside the mosque within the park. When he finally walked out and saw me, he did not ask a single question. He just started raining blows. Neighbours tried to stop him. He pulled a pistol and warned he would shoot anyone who came nearer. Then he dragged me into his vehicle and drove straight to the station. Only then did I realise he was a police officer. He ordered the men on duty to lock me in a cell and they did exactly that.
That first night there was no food. In the morning they shared a single loaf of bread among everyone in the cell. Around ten the next day an officer noticed me and asked who the small boy was. The woman at the counter simply said Oga instructed them to keep me. When the officer pressed further she snapped back, who are you to question Oga.
Days turned into weeks. A full month passed. Every night I cried myself to sleep, already tasting how bitter life could be at thirteen. Nobody listened when I tried to explain. Eventually a group of us were taken to court. The court did not sit. The officer in charge decided we should all go on remand. That is how I entered Maiduguri Prison.
I spent a year waiting. Later they put me in the laundry unit. After two years they moved me without warning. A fellow inmate whispered the name Bauchi as the vehicle rolled out. I was fifteen. From then on transfers became normal. One morning they simply wake you, load you into a truck, and you find yourself in another state. I went through prisons in the East and the West like a soldier on endless posting. My last southern stop was Ibadan before they finally brought me back north to Kano State Prison. By then I was already sixty.
Inside those walls everyone called me Baba. People knew my face but none believed the story. In prison the assumption is simple: if you are here, you must be guilty.
Then God remembered me. A governor came on a visit near the end of his second term. As he walked the yard his eyes stopped on me. Baba, come, he called. How old are you and why are you here. Tears I had held for decades finally fell. My chest felt swollen and empty. After fifty-nine years someone was asking the question that should have been asked when I was still a boy.
I am sixty, I answered. I arrived when I was thirteen. The whole yard erupted. Prisoners and officers shouted. Even the governor’s eyes filled. I told him everything, every transfer, every lost year. Hardened men in chains stood trembling as they listened.
An investigation followed. They discovered the officer who had locked the thirteen-year-old me away had risen to become a powerful traditional ruler, a respected king. The governor put me in his own car still wearing the prison uniform. Warders wanted me to change clothes. He refused.
When we reached the palace and our eyes met, the monarch dropped his head. He looked at the governor and asked quietly, will God ever forgive me? I made an Emir cry.
That man stole my youth, my future, my entire life. I lost every link to my family. I became a stranger who entered the world alone, with no mother, no father, no brothers or sisters left to claim me.
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