The first time Itoro tried boarding a bus without paying, he had been conked in the head before getting tossed out at the bus stop.

“I be staff” he said as callused hands patted down his pockets to check for hidden cash.

The second time was on his way back from church. He tried to bring out his ID card but he realized he left it at home.

“I be staff,” he muttered as the conductor requested his fare.

“Oga, pay your money. Which staff?” the conductor said as the pungent smell of something spoilt and rotting, like the open dump in Iyana Ikosi, wafted into Itoro’s face. Itoro ignored it, and the conductor busied himself collecting fares from the other passengers.

He inwardly prayed the conductor would forget to ask him again, but Lagos conductors are like computers. Their brains were specially programmed to do complex human computations without missing a beat.

“Oya, I will give you 1000. You will give him 600 and collect 400 and give me 200 so that I can give her 100 naira.”

Every single time, it always worked, and it was always correct. You cannot be smarter than a Lagos conductor. They are beings built to weather every form of contortion and situation. Necks bent inside buses collecting fares. Hands holding on to the Danfo roofsas they call out different bus stops.

They also join people together as though they were priests conducting a holy solemnization.

“Gba, take. Both of you go solve unaselves. I don join una.”

They would proceed to hop back on the bus as the people forcefully joined together in the arranged union yelled in protest. If Nigerian living was easier, that could have been the start of something beautiful. But Nigeria is too crazy and frustrating for such, and is a Nigerian rom-com of a love that started in a smelly bus romantic? Who would even watch such a movie?

Itoro wished, in that moment, for the luck that shines on children born on Sundays to shine on him that day. Alas, it seemed God had forgotten him because the conductor tapped him again.

“Oga, how far now? Your money.”

The conductor got momentarily distracted as the bus slowed down, and he busied himself calling passengers.

“Palmgrove, Onipanu, Yaba, Ojuelegbaaa! O n wole ooooo!!!”

Itoro contemplated jumping down from the bus and making a run for it, but his legs had started giving him problems ever since those unfortunate Yahoo boys they raided in Shomolu stripped and beat the hell out of him and Sergeant Arowojobe.

Itoro slowly massaged his knee as the memories of that day came rushing at him.

“Oya, say after me, ‘I am a fool.’”

The boys had commanded them as they ordered them to dance around their living room while spraying them with 100 naira notes.

It had happened that on that day, he and Sergeant Arowojobe conceived the grand and lofty scheme to carry out a raid. They would be covert about it so that the other officers wouldn’t share from their loot. It would also be easier for them to share the eventual payments from the boys, which were meant to be a form of protection against further harassment.

What they had not expected was that the boys had huge dogs and sophisticated artillery—were they robbers or Yahoo boys? He and Arowojobe questioned themselves after they used faux bravado to cajole them into letting them into the apartment.

It was six armed boys against two frail policemen.

Itoro was the first to get slapped by the dark, burly one among them. He seemed like the leader. The skin around Itoro’s neck stung and burned as he instinctively tried to use his hands to rub down the pain.

“Officer, officer.”

“Oga, abeg no vex. I be sergeant. Nah mistake, abeg,” Itoro pleaded.

The mocking face of his pudgy wife fluttered across the room. He didn’t know if he imagined it or not, but God no. If Edith knew about this, what was left of his manhood was gone! The boys ordered him and Arowojobe to strip and dance around the living room while they mocked them.

“Sergeant Itoro, you dey cry?” Sergeant Arowojobe had said upon noticing his tear-stained face.

Itoro ignored him as he sniffed and continued dancing. The boys mocked them, asking if their Oga knew about their “raid,” the wiry one among them said, gesturing with air quotes. His scruffy beard gave him a striking resemblance to a Nigerian dwarf goat.

This was a setup. The boys were already paying their dues, and Itoro and Arowojobe were just the greedy, stupid fools who didn’t get the memo.

One of the boys started hyping them up:

“Oga Police, see as you bad!”
“Oga Police, see as you tough!”
“Oya comot body now!”
“Comot body jor!”
“Jor jor jor!”

Itoro and Arowojobe danced through it all.

Itoro used his toe to crush one of the naira notes between his legs as he danced hoping to stylishly pick it up later, but one of the boys saw him and slapped him hard across the neck again. Itoro felt his neck muscles constrict.

Itoro cursed his luck.

Later, they were asked to pose and smile for the camera.

“Wait o, na Sergeant get hole for boxer like this?” The burly one among the boys said.

“E sure me say the man never wash am since e start to dey wear am see as e brown. Oga! You dey change this boxer so?” The question was directed at Arowojobe.

Itoro thanked his stars for once since they got locked in there. The same could be said about him, but fortunately, he was wearing navy blue boxers that day.

As the boys mocked and made fun of Arowojobe’s boxers, Itoro danced and danced and danced, not stopping for a beat.

“Wey your money nah!” The pungent smell rudely jolted him out of his thoughts nearly choking him. Itoro looked at the conductor and pleaded with his eyes. The conductor hissed and laughed a dry mirthless laugh. The odour got stronger. “Yabaaaaaa! Ojuelegbaaaaaa!” They had passed his stop and he was too scared to speak. He wished he had the ogboju courage the other policemen had. To jump on buses and board kekes without thinking about making payment or even offering and just saying “I be staff”. By the time they got to Ojuelegba, the conductor told him he would work to pay back the fare he could not afford. Sergeant Itoro was to become the conductor.

“Oya, start to dey shout ‘Ikeja, Computer Village, enter with your change!’”

Itoro seemed befuddled.

“My friend, you go work abi make I deck you enter gutter?”

Itoro complied and began to call passengers.

He was used to this. To be a Nigerian is to be unlucky. To be a police officer is to be twice-unlucky.

Humiliation clings to him like a shadow. Disgust wraps around him like a second skin. Curses and evil eyes trail him unprovoked. Mothers clutch their sons when he passes; fathers tighten their grip on their daughters. He walks through a world where people shrink at his approach, as if he were doomed to spread darkness—just like the colour of his uniform.

And his uniform? Always shabby and loosely fit. It tells the story of a man who knows not what to do with his life. A man who has resigned himself to fate and lives every day as it comes, not caring or bothering to pretend to find a purpose in his existence. A man waiting to die.

When his fellow police mates got selected to be orderlies, Itoro was never considered. He was seen as too dirty, too local, and too brash to be an orderly to a big man or woman.

His wife had lambasted him and called him every name except Itorobong Udom. Edith blamed him for not getting selected, the same way she blamed him for not getting the lion’s share of the bribes they collected on the road. But how would he explain to her that they had to report some of it to their Ogas before they shared the rest amongst themselves?

And during the glory days, he knew how profitable it was to pretend to be keeping the peace while looking out for a sleek car. Much better if it was driven by a man. Jackpot if it was a young boy.

If the boy happened to have a head full of dreads, he would inwardly praise God and do an acrobatic dance before marching towards the car with authority, poking his head through the window as soon as the driver rolled it down. It was simple.

“From where!” He would bark making sure his voice sounds as aggressive as possible.

Good evening, officer” The person would say, keeping their voice light.

“Evening,” Itoro would reply, still leaning into the window. “Where are you coming from?”

“Work.”

“Which work?” Itoro would look at him suspiciously, as if he had just insinuated there was a human head in the backseat. All nah tactics.

“Which work?” He would ask again pretending he didn’t hear the first time.

“Product management,” The boy would say humbly.

Itoro would frown. “Which one be that one?”

The boy would sigh and with tight lips explain. “I manage products, sir”

“You dey manage products?” Itoro would frown and look offended as if the boy had just called his mother a cheap whore in Allen.

“You be YAHOO BOY!”

The boy would look confused, then aghast then angry. Then the English would start. They always speak English those ones.

Itoro and his cohorts will wield their guns threateningly in his face daring him to challenge them further. Every grunt of frustration from the boy giving them a sadistic pleasure. They would engage him in this stupid back and forth before they ask the million-dollar question: “Anything for the boys?” The boy would speak some more English sometimes call a lawyer friend. Stupid lawyers. Many a times the boy would pay and Itoro would return home with enough to keep his wife shut for the rest of that week and to prevent haranguing about unpaid debts from Sandra – the owner of his favourite joint.

 

Itoro knew it was his burden to bear, but how would he explain to people who looked at him with scorn that he had joined the police because he had nowhere else to turn after finishing secondary school?

“Police are either thieves or murderers!” his mother had proclaimed the day he told her of his intention to join the police.

He wanted to tell her he had no other choice, but he didn’t because he did have other choices.

He could have become a teacher in one of the government schools in their village. Or become a regular at Ufan junction joining the men there to drink beer and eat unam abia every morning.

When Itoro got posted to Lagos, he wielded his power to its full, as the posting couldn’t have come at a better time. He revelled in the glory of being a police officer, the absolute power of it. Terrorizing young boys during the day and prowling the streets of Allen at night, preying on the women who lined the roads.

When he got posted to Alade Police Station in Shomolu, Itoro had already given up on the delusion that the life he lived was one worthy of anything.

He had grown more frail with age. His wife spoke to him anyhow, and his children had become terrors in the streets. On days he was lucky, it was when they happened upon one of those Yahoo boys—heady from a night of wasteful spending and debauchery.

On days filled with dry spells, he would wear his uniform haphazardly, holding his trousers in place with his peeling belt. He would report for work and survey the people as they trooped in one after the other with their irritating complaints.

“My neighbour stole my chicken.”
“Officer, I want to arrest a debtor.”

“My boyfriend used my paent for yahoo.”

 

One butty-looking boy with a melodic voice had sauntered into their station that day, carrying a guitar as he frantically reported a case of his stolen phones.

“Phones?” The police officer attending to him repeated.

“Yes, my phones. It was during choir practice, and I—”

“Choir practice? Wetin you dey do wey you use buy two phones?”

The boy, obviously flustered, stared at them like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

After a while, they told the boy to write down his statement.

When the boy returned three days later, stating that he had used a tracker to track down the phone thieves, they first queried him and asked why he bypassed police procedure.

But this soft-looking boy, with skin like fresh palm oil, would have a lot to spend. He must be one of those remote control workers or whatever they call themselves.

They told him he would need to charter a keke napep that they would use to make the arrest.

“I don’t understand. What about the police car?”

“E don spoil. You go fix am?” Itoro pronounced fix as “fizz” but who cares?

The boy shook his head.

They told him he would pay for fuel, cover the trip expenses, and also give them money for processing. The boy agreed. Of course, a butter boy.

The boy bought them doughnuts and cold Coke when they told him they were too weak to come down from the napep and make the arrest.

When they bundled the suspect between them and headed back to the station, the boy ran frantically towards the POS to withdraw 20,000 more, which they said would be needed to file the details in court.

Itoro had made his mark for the next few months.

He now had a source of emergency 5,000, 10,000, and who knows, with how green and eager this boy was, with how trusting and at ease he was in believing the police would help him sort his case.

Itoro would have enough to keep Edith off his back for a long tiiiiiiiiime.