Freedom

Freedom

I’m sitting in the reception of a prison yard with other corps members waiting for the prison warder to call on us to come in. We have been waiting for thirty minutes now after we have changed from our casual wears to our full soccer kits.

One of our fellow corper is serving in the Prison Staff School, Kano and they have organised a friendly match between us (the corpers) and the prisoners which we have agreed to play.

As the time bore on, my inquisitive eyes trail to the board where the list of names of the inmates is pasted. I see their numerous number and almost weep.

On the list, there are more than a thousand convicted male inmates and more than four hundred females. Those waiting trials are more than one thousand and five hundred inmates, both male and female. The names that make me break down is the list of those under life imprisonment; they are fifteen in number. I see their names and I wonder how they must be feeling now—to be confined in a place for their whole lifetime, with the different ambience of the prison yard that makes breathing and living laborious.

It’s time to let us in. The prison warder ushers us in, and warns us not to gift the inmates anything, no matter how trivial. We agree and trudge in. The ambience of the prison is not where one would want to be found in. It reeks of slavery, abandonment and all sorts of bondage.

Contrary to what we are feeling, they look happy in this constrained place like it’s a home. I don’t blame them, it’s the only place they can call home.

In the prison yard, there are a number of talents wasting. I see some inmates that are good in shoe cobbling, they must have learnt it here or have been taught to. Some are actually good tailors—they are sewing their inmates torn clothes and several of them with different kinds of talents like singing, dancing and so on. They live life here like it’s the best place they can ever be. They even have a president. I see a few Christian brethren having their fellowship with all truthfulness and I feel uninterested in the match again. I feel like to join them and thank the Lord for the freedom I have, but we are restricted to do such.

Further ahead, I see an old man, his head is covered with grey hairs and his beards are all white. I enquire who he is, and the prison warder tells me that he’s the oldest in this prison. ‘He’s been here for more than thirty years,’ he says and I wonder how he must be feeling about it.

I see some inmates acquiring different skills and some being taught elementary mathematics, and I remember how stubborn I was when my teachers shout to teach me and I take them for granted. Here, they are paying apt attention like their lives depend on it.

The amusing thing is that the prison “Team” has a coach who is also an inmate. I see him talking to his players on how they’ll play against us. It amuses me because I never thought they’ll be this organised nor even have any activity in the prison yard. I thought it’ll be labour and more labour all through. I come to realise that the prison harbours talents that are supposed to be honed.

The referee, a prison warder, blows the opening whistle. The match starts.

The prison have better players to represent Nigeria in international level if they are scouted and honed. Into the game, three players out of their eight players catch my attention throughout the match. The first is their winger. He is so fast and his passes are accurate. He plays like one that’s playing with a big international Club. His name is Suker and I get to learn that he has been here for four years now.

The second is the goalkeeper. He is very good and he has denied us many clear chances that I have counted as goal.

The third is their striker. The dude is fast, smart and sharp. He is the replica of the African footballer, Didier Drogba. He’s always a threat anytime the ball is passed to him. His composure and control of the ball seem to make me feel I’m playing against a superstar.

The match ends in a stalemate; a 1-1 result. We meet them and exchange pleasantries. I get to talk to the striker. He says he’s an Igbo guy. He tells me that immediately he saw me from the onset, he knew that I’m an Igbo guy too. I ask him what’s his crime. He says he’s being accused of rape but he’s innocent. The way he said it, it sounded nothing like a lie. I believe him.

He continues by saying that he’s an orphan and the first child of his dead parents, thus, he has nobody to fight for him but God. At this moment, I feel like crying. He asks me to give him my socks, that he likes them. I want to give them to him, but I remember the stern warning they gave us at the reception, then I demure and tell him about it. He nods solemnly and says OK.

We are moving towards the reception and heading out of the prison, some of the inmates are begging me to gift them my jersey, my hand bands and my boot, but I can’t and they don’t know why. I see some peeping out from behind us to catch a glimpse of what the outside world looks like again. I see the excitement and anticipation in their eyes as they are eager to see the outside world, just then a pang of emotion hit me.

I imagine how we wake up every morning and keep chasing after the “big life”, how we worry on what to eat, what to buy, where to go, what to do, who to meet, and in all we still complain about the situation of the country, while some humans like me and you are just asking God for only one thing; if they could see the world again. If they could get the one thing that we take for granted, which is freedom.

‘Oya, go back! Go back! Shuu!’ the voices of the prison warders bark and brings me out of my reverie. I see them chasing the inmates back to their respective cells like they are animals. I just wish I can do anything to let them out of their bondage. But it’s beyond me.

We are now out of the prison and a different gush of fresh air hits me. I breathe in, inhaling one thing that separates us from the inmates. One thing they lack which is freedom. I look up to the sky and utter a prayer of thanksgiving,

‘Lord, thank you for the gift of freedom. I’m sorry for complaining about not having money or food to eat. Sorry for asking too much. Thank you for the gift of life and the gift of freedom to go wherever I want to go. Father, thank You. I’m grateful.’

Image credit: prisonrideshare.com