Buried Without Justice: My Son Died in Police Custody / Chapter 2: No Paper, No Peace
Buried Without Justice: My Son Died in Police Custody

Buried Without Justice: My Son Died in Police Custody

Author: James Hicks

Chapter 2: No Paper, No Peace

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2

So, wetin really happen to Ibrahim?

For Naija, when bad thing happen, story dey scatter everywhere. Everybody get their own version. For Musa family, days after Ibrahim death na full confusion. Neighbours come with different gist, each more unbelievable. "Dem say na police beat am," one friend whisper. "Dem say he faint for station," another add. But truth na only one—something bad really happen for that station. The only clear thing be say, wahala dey.

For long after, family and friends no know anything except say dem detain Ibrahim. Even wetin happen after police pick am, na small small from friends dem piece together—like puzzle with missing part.

Ibrahim friends, scattered across hostel and campus, begin call each other, dey try arrange timeline. One go say, "He call me around 11, him voice dey shake." Another go add, "I see am that afternoon, him fine." Every small detail matter. Naija people sabi say when system fail, na only stubborn digging dey bring small truth. Family draw timeline for paper, dey do detective work out of desperation.

At 10 p.m. on March 17, Ibrahim commot house go cyber café. He just reach Port Harcourt about three weeks, no get temporary residence paper yet. He no even carry ID card go out.

Na exam season, cyber café dey jam every night. Ibrahim, like every student, wan check email, print assignment. He no think am twice before stepping out without ID. "Who go harass student for main road?" he fit reason. But Port Harcourt dey hot—police everywhere, dey check papers. Friends later talk say he plan spend just thirty minutes, but destiny get another plan.

He jam police everywhere—dem dey check ID. When dem question am, officers carry am go Rumuokoro Police Post. Around 11 p.m., Ibrahim call Mr. Okeke, his roommate, from police post, beg am bring ID card and some money for bail.

That night, street full of police siren. Ibrahim find himself surrounded by officers with torchlight, dey shout. Dem ask am plenty question—accent, no papers—suspicion high. For station, he beg one officer allow am call Okeke. Voice dey shake. "Abeg, help me bring my ID. Bring small change for bail too," he plead. Na the usual drill: no ID, no freedom. Na so Nigeria be.

Around midnight, Okeke reach police post, but police refuse to release Ibrahim. Dem talk, “We can’t let this person go.” Okeke see Ibrahim through window, ask wetin happen. Ibrahim reply say he argue with police.

Okeke, still dey catch breath, try reason with officers. "Oga, abeg, na student he be o!" But DPO just wave am off. "This one get mouth. He dey argue. We no fit release am." Okeke see Ibrahim, face tired, eyes worried. "Wetin happen?" he ask. Ibrahim shake head, whisper, "I no gree for them. Dem dey vex." That stubborn spirit—wey Musa dey proud of—now bring wahala. For Naija, police no like person wey talk back.

Okeke no get choice but to leave. He never see Ibrahim again.

Standing outside, Okeke call other friends but nobody fit help. Rain begin fall small small, wash street dust. Okeke linger, hope police go change mind, but as midnight pass, he gots go. He look back at station one last time, yellow bulb dey throw shadow. Inside heart, he pray, "God, abeg, protect my friend." That night, Okeke carry guilt for not doing more. He never forget am.

On March 18, Ibrahim dey moved go Port Harcourt City Detention and Repatriation Transit Center. There, he manage call another friend. The friend remember Ibrahim dey talk fast, dey stutter, voice full of fear.

For transit center, everywhere na confusion. Detainees dey bench—some dey cry, some just dey quiet. Ibrahim beg guard allow am call. Friend wey answer say words tumble out: "Abeg, come help me, I no know wetin I do. Dem say dem go transfer me. I dey fear." The fear for him voice no be here. For Naija, once you enter police wahala, nobody fit predict the end.

On 19th, friend try go detention center bail Ibrahim, but dem talk say dem don send am since night before, 11:30 p.m., go Mile Four Inpatient Department of Port Harcourt Psychiatric Hospital—over one hour drive from city center. That place also serve as Detained Persons Medical Aid Center. Hospital staff talk say dem no fit see am, only family fit post bail.

Journey to Mile Four long and confusing. Friend, with only hope for hand, argue for hospital gate. Staff, busy and impatient, just brush am off. "Na only family fit see am. If you no be blood, no disturb us." Nobody explain why dem send Ibrahim there or how e dey. Friend wait outside, dey pace, dey pray for miracle. E no come.

On 20th, friend call again to ask how to get Ibrahim out. The answer shock everybody—Ibrahim don die.

News hit like thunder. "Sorry, the person you dey look for don die." Just like that. Friend drop phone, mouth open. Rush call Okeke and other classmates. For Naija, bad news dey fly fast, but each person wey hear am still shock afresh. "How? He dey alive two days ago!"

How person wey dey alive just die like that?

The question hang for air. Nobody believe official story. "How person go waka enter station, then die inside hospital for no reason?" Family and friends know something dey wrong, but wall of silence dey high. Pain of not knowing dey burn pass grief. For Makurdi compound, neighbours gather under mango tree, dey shake head. "E no pure."

Days after, family go police post, detention center, hospital, prosecutor office, court, city council, civil affairs office, health board. People wey no even sabi city road, dey run up and down, but nothing come out.

Musa, Yusuf, uncles—everybody dey waka like person wey get fire for leg. Slippers chop finish as dem waka from one office to another. Every place new wahala: officers no gree look eye, clerks dey act like say you dey disturb national peace. For hot Port Harcourt sun, dem queue, dey sweat, dey beg, only to hear, "No record here," or "Try Ministry of Health." Their Hausa and Tiv accent mark dem as outsider. Na so dem go just dey bounce us from office to office, like ball for primary school field. Each night, dem gather for hotel room, tired but refuse give up. "We no go let Ibrahim die for nothing," Yusuf talk, eyes red.

They went to every government office they could find, but nobody...

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