By Brian Nzomo.
The prison. With decrepit adobe walls. Cerise bricks. Fifteen metres high. Fitted with tenacious and grisly looking barbed wire at the apex. A solid gate made of stalwart steel, enforced by cogent camphor.
Three hawk-eyed wardens were sentinel around the gate. Sauntering vigilantly. Four watchtowers stood loftily above the prison walls at different points. Sheltering sharp-eyed wardens armed with baleful magnum guns. An escape from Tikima Maximum security prison was miraculous if not impossible.
But the prison was bustling with political prisoners with every passing day. Government lorries drove daily in the prison yard. Packed with hundreds of revolutionaries. Hundreds of prisoners convicted of other offences were transferred to other prisons to create room for a pullulating number of political prisoners. Most of them; university students, professors, lawyers, journalists and members of the Civil society. Female activists were packed in a Women’s prison ten kilometres from where we were. All of us. Arbitrarily arrested and imprisoned without trial.
I had been here for two weeks. I was among the first batch of prisoners. A sullen Friday in a trampled down nation. Anti-government protests had began. But before my editor had assigned me to cover the protests, an order from ‘above’ bombarded the Nation’s newsrooms. Barring the press from covering any issue related to the protests, as it was tantamount to creating ‘incitement for further unrest’.
My editor was a dauntless soul. Everyone knew that no amount of intimidation would cower him. He had to send his most defiant reporter to cover the protests, and violate the order altogether. I took up the assignment gleefully. Together with my camera woman Jenny, we reported the protests live.
Other media houses could not let the order capitulate their role. They decided to report the events unfolding. Boldly and audaciously. But the crack down was merciless. Anti-riot police clubbed hundreds of protesters, piling them like trash in dust-coated lorries. Some with broken limbs and blood stained shirts. Men to women. All and sundry met the wrath of the brutal armoured men. I couldn’t remember how I lost sight of Jenny. All I could remember was a heavy smack on my back that sent me sprawling on the rough tarmac amid the scampering of protesters. I dizzily stood up and attempted to run. But I was met with a weighty whack that dislocated my jawbone. I became unconscious.
When I woke up hours later. Shuddered by exhaust and back pain. I was in a dark trunk of a military lorry. Poorly ventilated and crammed like sardines. A wheezy asthmatic man was gasping for fresh air but a stout officer repeatedly ordered him to be silent.
“A sick man should have known better than engage in running games with the Government,” the officer shouted arrogantly. “And all of you should know you’re in trouble. You’ll all regret your mindless actions.”
“Where are you taking us?” asked a female voice at the corner. “Don’t worry beautiful. We are taking you to where all troublemakers belong.” We had been on the road for five hours. A nauseating sensation in my gut.
“My God. When is this journey going to be over. I’m dying,” cried a man at the dark corner. He had a bullet wound on his leg. “Oh Shut up. God doesn’t exist. He won’t save you,” cried the man beside me, a History university professor.
When the lorry halted, a wind of fresh air pervaded at the back when the carriage was opened. “All of you. Come out one by one. Men only. Any stupid move and I won’t hesitate shooting you to death,” barked the brawny officer, firmly clutching his gun obdurately. We all alighted the carriage and surveyed the surroundings. With hands above our heads. I recognized the place instantly. I had been here severally to cover the stories of innocent convicted prisoners. “Sir! Two men are dead. What do we do with them,” asked the officer who was inspecting the carriage for hiding men. “Leave them. We shall dispose off their bodies when we take the women to Ngalata Women’s prison,” said the senior officer. As the lorry left, we were matched to the premises by heavily armed wardens. A hundred of us.
**** **** ****
Two weeks later. And the country was rocked by protests calling for the overhaul of the despotic regime. As the government doled out sadistic brutality, the hearts of the citizens became more indomitable. Death tolls were spiralling each day, prisoners flocked nationwide penitentiaries. And overcrowded prisons like Tikima became eminently uncontrollable for a handful wardens. Military men were called in to supplement security and maintain order. Every night, the sleeping zones were resonant with liberation chants and songs of struggle. The wardens would then trip in and club us to silence. But adamant as we were. With solemnly gallant hearts, would sing again. And again. The whole night, in the morning and during prevalent hunger strikes. The acts were repetitive in other prisons including female prisons. There was word of an imminent riot to ensue in prisons.
**** **** ****
The country’s protests had eclipsed beyond panacea. And the de-day had come. The day when thousands would flock the President’s abode and force him out of office. That morning, the prisoners chanted slogans of liberation more valiantly. Banging tables vigorously. And then the signal was given. A rush ensued. Before the in-prison wardens knew what was happening, prisoners overpowered them and beat them up. The keys to the main prison door were snatched from them. And when the door flew open. The wardens outside were petrified. The military men astounded at the sight of thousands of prisoners rushing across the yard shouting frenziedly clutching eating forks and brandishing them menacingly. There was no time to think. Shots were fired. But even at the fall of gunned prisoners, thousands still rained on the wardens and guards. Amid the frenzy, I fell down and saw it. The key to the gate. Without dilly delay, I quickly fit the key in the lock, and twisted it. There was a crank. Boom! It opened. More gunfire rained from the watchtower guards. Dozens of us pushed the gates open. Hundreds stormed out. I began running. Westbound was the destination. The watchtower guards hadn’t ceased shooting the escaping prisoners. But hundreds of us couldn’t stop. We were all eager to join our fellow countrymen in the clamour for change. And adobe walls, guns or fear wasn’t going to stop us.
The feeling of freedom was enlivening. And that feeling would be felt that day by all and sundry. Men, women and children. The posh and the poor. The chains would be dismantled in fiery ardor…
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