Condemned: The Prisoner’s Final Secret / Chapter 3: The Execution Ground
Condemned: The Prisoner’s Final Secret

Condemned: The Prisoner’s Final Secret

Author: Casey Campos


Chapter 3: The Execution Ground

Ifedike’s narration (1):

Outside is the Ibeku execution ground. I know this place well because my family used to live nearby. Coming back here now feels like returning home; you can say I’m coming home to die.

In 1995, I was fifteen, in JSS2. My mother brought me here, to the staff quarters of the Ibeku Assembly Plant in Ibeku LGA. That place is now abandoned.

Our building was the last row, right beside the Ibeku execution ground, separated only by barbed wire and a row of mango trees.

But from the window, you could still peep the execution ground through the trees.

Every morning at six, after waking up, I would use binoculars to watch the firing squad executions.

Early morning, before the sun rose over the hills, the whole execution ground would be covered in bluish dawn. The condemned would be led out. One by one, as soon as they stepped onto that ground, their shoulders would drop, faces ashen and lifeless, as if their souls had already left.

Once the guns were loaded, they would suddenly become clear-headed—some would beg for mercy, some would cry, some would try to run, some would be so scared they wet themselves. But in the end, all were pinned down.

Then they would kneel, open their mouths on the signal, to hear the verdict from behind. When the gunshot rang out, even the birds hardly moved, and the place would return to silence.

The wait for execution was torture, but when the moment came, it finished in a flash.

But dead is dead—lying motionless on the ground. Whether they cried, laughed, ran, or caused wahala, in the end they all lay there, still, becoming corpses.

Their faces looked calm and peaceful. Because their mouths were wide open, the bullet would enter from the back of the head and come out through the mouth, so the face was not badly damaged, making it easier for the people handling the aftermath.

That year, I was fifteen. Every morning, I had to look at the execution ground, both scared and unable to look away. Afterward, I’d tremble all over, goosebumps everywhere, my head buzzing, as if the gunshot had entered my own brain.

I got hit by that gunshot almost every day, then went to school.

Dr. Folarin, isn’t that kind of experience rare?

He looked at me then, his eyes suddenly younger, almost lost. For a moment, the jail cell felt as if it had shrunk to a small, cold boy’s room. I cleared my throat, wishing for a cup of hot Lipton to steady my nerves.

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