‘Gard ruum …fast fast’
That just doesn’t seem possible. Even a trip to Ghana or Niger Republic would have done a world of good to me at that time… Then one bright morning at the height of this desire to travel, when I was pretty sure I would fall ill if I didn’t leave, my prayer was answered. The […]
That just doesn’t seem possible. Even a trip to Ghana or Niger Republic would have done a world of good to me at that time… Then one bright morning at the height of this desire to travel, when I was pretty sure I would fall ill if I didn’t leave, my prayer was answered. The answer came on a platter of gold. All of a sudden a call came from the Abia state Government House indicating that Governor Orji Uzor Kalu would like me to travel to the US with him to cover his presidential campaign there. Air tickets, accommodation and per diem were provided for five days… So off I went and returned with this faithful Olympus camera which has been a great help in the exciting world of news gathering and features writing.
It still serves as a reminder of that trip which always seems encircled in gold whenever I try to recall it. I also returned with nice books, including my first hardcover copy of Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code. So my Olympus camera is associated with great joy which cannot be erased from my spirit. A few years before the US trip a fan just missed falling on my head in a hotel in Umuahia when I went to do a story on Biafran pounds. What Governor Uzor Kalu did by taking me on that trip to the US was an unconscious attempt to remove the shocking memory of my hotel experience. It missed my head by inches. I captured the event piece titled ‘That hotel in Umuahia’published in Weekly Trust.
Last weekend I travelled to the Sukur hills in Adamawa state, to a place close to the border with Cameroun, to cover the annual Yawal festival among the Sukur people.It is a post harvest festival of thanksgiving, and is an hour walk uphill. The festival turned out to be a colourful magical event which I will not forget for a long time. Later I walked downhill to get my bag, say goodbye and return to Maiduguri.In the bus I sat next to Joseph Oguche, who said he had just finished the national service programme at the Adamawa State Polytechnic, Yola. I asked him about his future plans. Soon we began talking about journalism.
He expressed an interest and I asked him to check for a recent advert I had seen. We also talked about the naira picking habits of soldiers and policemen along the route. We couldn’t avoid this discussion for it was happening all around. I told him that one day I will form a team of reporters to go round the country and quietly take pictures of the naira picking hobby of our uniformed men. Later, I said we will splash the pictures all over the place.He laughed and saw nothing wrong with that. Then I brought out my camera and began to show him some of the pictures I had just taken at the Sukur hilltop festival. There were pictures of the chief dancing elegantly among his people, of the rare stone architecture of the village, and colourfuly clad women dancing beneath happy umbrellas.
I never knew that this simple act could play a role in highlighting the seriously challenged space within which the journalist operates today. Soon we came to another check point. A short dark soldier saw us looking into the camera. He instantly became animated and swiftly barked that I should get down from the bus bringing along the camera. I disembarked and crossed the road as he had indicated.He seized the camera and declared me a’ c-curity risk’ for taking pictures of soldiers at the checkpoint. I denied this. Afterall, I had just told Joseph that this is what I will certainly do in the future, to play a role in bringing sanity to our roads. I certainly hadn’t started the naira-picking –soldiers’ project yet.Or had the soldiers become clairvoyant and started to persecute me in anticipation of the event? The soldier asked for my identity card, looked at it with a sneer on his face, and returned it, yelling something rude at me. All the while his body language remained absolutely hostile.
He also carried a gun. He yelled that I shouldn’t be taking pictures of soldiers without seeking permission. From time to time he would get onto the road to collect naira notes from the drivers of passing vehicles. Soon he told me that he would have to destroy the camera. Then he was joined by one of his colleagues, who insisted that I will be allowed to go if I surrendered the film or memory card to them.They suggested that I should just forget abut the camera.I hardly responded to that, and kept on insisting that I had not taken photographs of them .I could hardly believe that the story I went to cover would suddenly perish because of a group of soldiers who had suddenly become terrified of cameras, and had developed an amazing phobia. What’s a story without pictures.I resolved deep inside me that I won’t surrender that camera or any of its parts, to soldiers of the Nigerian army, or even the police. Never, I won’t. Soon they asked to look at all the films taken .So I proceeded to go through more than 80 pictures in the camera.
These covered the Sukur festival, parts of my recent story on Auchi, as well as a few pictures of my stay in the UK last year.There were no pictures of soldiers picking naira notes on the Madagali-Maiduguri road.The camera drew a complete blank in that regard. No picture. Nothing. Zero. Empty. Tabula rasa. So, what happens now? Soon the short dark soldier came around yelling something about a ‘gard ruum- fast fast’, ‘c-curity risk’ and that ‘people like you are looking for trouble’. ‘Tell truth…don’t throw gramma for hia.’ It was a swift torrent of cynicism. At this point I quietly sent up a short strong prayer for help, for I don’t quarrel with people who are carrying guns or whips. I settled for this course of action years ago during a students protest at the Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria which was about to go awfully wrong. Now along the hot road I remembered the ABU event with stunning clarity. But help was around the corner.
Soon a tall, fair, and nobly built soldier emerged from nowhere. I hadn’t noticed him earlier. I was a bit shocked at his sudden appearance. He too said I had to surrender the film or delete the offending shots.I now said that there were no pictures to delete. I couldn’t delete what did not exist. Now he asked to be shown all the pictures previously taken. So, once more I went through all the pictures taken. The pictures were on the Sukur festival, pictures from a story on Auchi and my recent stay in the United Kingdom. There was no picture of a short, dark yelling soldier or his accomplices working at 5.00 pm near Mararabar Banki in Borno state, on Saturday 20 February.
After seeing all the pictures taken, the tall fair soldier now took his equally tall colleague to a corner where they had a brief discussion on the matter leaning against their car which had the words ‘Operation Flush II Borno state 076’ on its body. The short one now charged at the driver of the bus and was about to get him to do the frog jump. I wondered later why he never carried out the threat. Frog jump for what: for conveying a journalist who has a camera which he is free to open and look at, if and when he so wills? I began to think he may begin to shoot at my toes very soon, or ask for the receipt of my camera.
Soon the tall fair soldier said I could go to the bus and continue my journey, but added that I shouldn’t take pictures of soldiers along the road.I was surprised that he escorted me to the bus and actually put the camera deep in my bag, in an almost brotherly way. Was he scared that his short colleague would try to shoot at me as I crossed? His cantankerous colleague still came to the bus as we drove off, and screamed a rustic message that he will deal with me in the future .I still can’t understand his great rage.
Later, I checked into a nice hotel in Maiduguri for I decided that I deserved to pet myself that evening after the drama. I reflected upon the afternoon event, and rejoiced that I did not resort to the option of begging or pleading. I was silent and only spoke each time to reaffirm my innocence. You go up a hill to cover a festival. On the way back you bring out your camera in a bus, to look once more at he festival pictures. Then you are harassed by soldiers for doing this. What a country! My great prayer for help on the hot road was answered with speed, just as my prayer to leave Nigeria received a swift answer in 2006. It just occurred to me that I have uttered quite a number of prayers around my faithful Olympus camera.