Murder in my Country

Murder in my Country

Episode One

By Thompson Taiwo

I went to Bariga, downtown Lagos, to visit a childhood friend, Donald. As we were engrossed in a

conversation, talking Lagos- its politics, people and impatience, a little boy of five, sauntered in our way, with his flaking salver of bananas, well-adjusted on his small head. Like a street hawker that he was and with grownup courage, he introduced his scanty wares to us. We didn’t buy from him; my friend only doled out a bristly fifty naira note to the boy. I wasn’t startled by the sight of a gaunt kid fending for himself. It’s not a spectacle in Lagos. It’s like a portrait you see each time you mooch past an artist’s studio. It has lost its allures.

‘The boy’s name is Paul. Don’t blame his parents, they are no more. Don’t blame the kid, he has to survive. Blame me, blame yourself, blame the police, blame the government, and blame corruption.’ He counselled.

‘You speak in parables.’ I retorted. ‘This is the first time I have seen this kid, why will you hold me responsible for his condition?’ I probed

‘He is the only child of the late Bamidele Aremu.’ Donald noted.

‘The celebrated filmmaker who was allegedly murdered by four policemen over his money one year ago?’ I asked. Donald nodded yes to my enquiry.

Paul’s father was a renowned filmmaker who had many international accolades under his belt. He had used his flicks to tell the troubled story of Sub-Saharan Africa – its sit-tight leaders, usual reports of election rigging, corroded infrastructure, failed government, ethno-religious crises and conspiratorial role of the West in its affairs. His sophomore movie, which unrepentantly exposed the corrupt exchanges in government circles, came under the hammer of government. The country’s spokesperson unabashedly owned up that the flick told too much about us.

The filmmaker, Bamidele Aremu,lost his wife to our death-trap highways some months before he met his death in the hands of a cluster of policemen.He had just returned from the United States where he went to premiere his latest film, Heart of Darkness. He was in his car driving home from the airport. The road was free, devoid of the maddening traffic that has made Lagos notorious, though it was late in the night.He ran into a police checkpoint and they flagged him down. He obeyed instantaneously, landing his foot on the break and his sleek Toyota Camry car let out a screeching sound. The car lunged forward and stopped.

Beaming with smiles, he greets the gangly police officer who walks up to his motionless car. The officer orders him to produce the documents to his vehicle. He obeys with celerity. Following the painstaking check on the particulars, the lanky officer acknowledges its validity. Not content, he commands the filmmaker to open his booth for the next check. He complies, without protest. Inside the booth lies a big tanned travelling bag with bulging stomach, which the traveller opens on the order of the officer. What oozes out is the smell of few wads of mint dollar notes with a thicket of film scripts.

‘Who are you and where did you get these foreign notes?’ The officer queried in an authoritative tone, motioning to his colleagues to join him. In minutes, other officers were nippily briefed about the money and they formed themselves into a shield around Bamidele like a group of wanton boy roasting a grass cutter caught by a trap. He explains to them he is a filmmaker, who arrives the country that night after a successful premiere of his movie in Atlanta, Georgia to an audience of white people.

‘I brought the dollar notes back from my American trip. I’m the Bamidele Aremu.’ He courteously snapped.

‘We don’t watch movies.’ One of the policemen blurted.

‘But you read newspapers.’Aremu said jokingly.

‘We only read other beats not entertainment.’ The lanky officer reacted speedily.

‘Am I free to go now?’ Bamidele enquired, looking worried and stealing a glance at his wrist watch.

‘Yes, you can.’ The lanky officer said ditheringly, glancing at the faces of other officers as though waiting for a contrary order. Silence was their reaction. The film maker zipped up the travelling bag, shut the booth, advanced to the steering wheel and drove off.

Ace Filmmaker Murdered: Body Found along Lagos Highway, First-rate Filmmaker Murdered; Africa’s Number One Filmmaker Shot Dead were the banner headlines of the following morning newspapers. 
The story, that filtered in later in the day was that the filmmaker, was stalked by the police after leaving the check point and they got him strangled. The story was told by an eyewitness but no evidence to probe the murderers.