When I consider the sufferings and pains of some law abiding Nigerians in the webs of the men in black, undergoing extreme torment like slaves under their master’s enclaves; like prisoner the street becomes restricted to their movement! Fear grips me.
As a youngster, my imagination was vivid.

It was to recruit into the police force to serve and save my dear country Nigeria until now.
Retrospectively, my best friend’s father was a genuine policeman; decent and honest with integrity! A Great respecter of every individual, a mentor and an inspiratory who with faith rendered selfless service to the country in respect of the police force.

By his attributes, he became my source of inspiration.

He’s uniforms were always very neat! Like a package shirt, they were always iron to the best. The shiny leather of his shoes was my courage and correction from tattiness to decency. With him, I had hope that one day Nigeria would become a better place.


He was a great attraction to everyone in the street; the kids in inclusive because of his immeasurable passion to serve the country through the police force irrespective he’s mini salary and poor standard of living.

Sadly oh blessed memories, a week before his hierarchy was to be uplifted for the addition of a new rank, he was wasted by bullets and his dead was attributed to fault some unknown gunmen.
But common sense, he was murders and the case was sealed!
Back then, there were few numbers of decent police men and women with good manners of approach! Perhaps, they weren’t educated to the top!

But the nature of their jobs and the responsibilities bestowed upon them as law enforcement was made incisively to their understanding before and after recruitment.

Those were men of honor and integrity was their targets. But as I grew older, what I see troubled my mind. “How the goats got mixed with the sheep worries me, and I don’t understand the weeds that has outgrown the crops”
Every blessed day, I see groups of people on black attire with red eyes like habitual smokers putting on dirty shoes, hanging on some dirty pick-up, wearing some dirty trousers; patch to the buttock, holding some foreign abandon weapons, people without manners of approach and respect; a suppose crime fighter that commits the highest numbers of crime with no record of punishment because the discipline of indecency is dead in the force.

But as I stare even much closer, I realized that there were more black stains in the inside of the pot and my eyes were focus only on the outside.

These strange men on black attires had caused so many innocent and law abiding Nigerians to prison because of their selfish interest. They punish the innocent in place for the plutocrat sinners. The street no longer is safe for both the grown and for the growing.

So I ponder, “How long should the mind of the people continue to rely on the forever promise of the minister of common sense for security? Where are the genuine doctors with the abilities to cure the sick or aren’t they any?

“Should the innocent continue to be mute, living in terror even in the street of their birth, battling with harassment from hoodlums and simultaneously, the spontaneous threat from some nonchalant men on black, perambulating the street in respect of law enforcement? I doubt.

Like a lamp that went off, the harum-scarum, nonchalant puerile idiosyncrasy of characters heterogeneous the police force has killed my passion of it.

With my anxieties and to verify am not being misled by my troubled thoughts of everyday stress, I headed to the police center to report a fault case of harassment.

At the police station, I made my way through the entrance; two men in black sat discussing, another one stood by receiving a phone call but constantly pulling his falling trouser up to the waist. In another scene, two men on black, one sitting on top of a motor cycle, his gun was hung behind he’s back. The owner of the motor cycle stood with the other man on black pleading for the released of his only means of lively hood, his inner pocket is pull out, and evidence he has given out all the money he had.

While admiring them for the force they claim to be, my thoughts could not help but ponder, “whether or not the governments were concern about their daily records.

Successfully, I made my way into a small but open office. In it, a wooden table and a cross bar! Comfortably balanced on it, a belle on black plus a man with big belli, attached with another fat man with belli alike; all on black attire.

They stood tall enjoying their gossips but were distracted by my sudden submerge while the other complainants sat and watched on a wooden bench.

I reported my case of harassment to the trio, then I relaxed my anxiety for a responds. The case was ignored momentarily, then a chuckle, followed with a clap by the belle three times then a squeezed of the mouth.

Then the bomb was dropped, “see this small rat! You were harassed by some policemen? Who are you? You’re not even scared to walk down here, Hun!
She chanted while the duo watched in amazement.

Suddenly, my courage fled away because I was subdued to an ant. Their verdict was even more harassing than I can imagine.

Then I began to regret and felt sorry for myself. “What propelled my move at first, where was my sense of reasoning before coming here to the police center?
On my own, I settle down on the wooden bench to relax my gasp with my mouth gape. But I was latter given another seat behind the cross bar, I sat there until it came clear to my knowledge that I must bail myself out from that wooden seat.

While in that pre-jailed, I saw a fat man, weary of seating; trying all effort to cross the people at home but he’s effort was fruitless. He was seated beside by ‘another crosspatch who with all might swear never to go near a police station again thereafter.

Beside him was an elderly fellow, slightly tipsy to a point, which could not hold back his anger but poured it out with curses to his captors. He was considered a drunk.

Then suddenly before my eyes, the hunters came in with their innocent victims, all smelling of alcoholic! All on their usual tattered black attires; authorizing their victims to refrain from noise and be mute.

As they crossed my part, it felt as though I was in a local bar where alcoholic drinks were been served. The atmosphere changed to the smell of alcoholics and hem.

To myself I pondered, “Aren’t these people drunk? Do they really know their duties and responsibilities as law enforcement? How can they arrest innocent people from the street if found drunk when they themselves are habitual drunkard?

Why do they pick people at random, only to end up fabricating lies on them in other to extort money from the innocent? And what does displace and dis-orderly mean to those men on black? Why should they continue to use their foreign abandoned weapons to intimidate armless innocent people in the street?

I suddenly realized that all this were rather rhetorical, someone has to hear this. It makes no meaning to sing and dance alone in crowded place! Someone, somewhere must apologies to all the young stars now aged in the street whose imaginations was to recruit in the police force.

For killing our dreams and for killing the morals of those men with integrity and replacing them with jobless men who are driven by means of survival, someone must explain.

This must go further beyond the tail to the head of the earth that, “the goat has mixed with the sheep and the weeds has outgrown the crops”

To anyone who has or have in anyway or place been a victim of police brutality

BY: Alexandre w. wisdom.
FOR: Eyes of African Gods



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