People often question me—with sincere concern— about my ‘carefree’ attitude towards life and living. A bunch of those cute concerns have revolved around my ‘apparently’ blatant refusal to pay attention to certain ‘tiny’ details that they believe may aggregate into some vague or sometimes even concrete (logical) reward; or help prevent some impending peril. A few times, friction did ensue and went on to produce fiery sparks between myself and the ‘concerned’ party(s) that inadvertently tried to impose their ‘superior’ modus operandi on me. Before I continue to the first story in my attempt to unmask the ‘mysterious’ reasons— No matter how unreasonable to you— behind my method and its madness; Before I can properly show the peculiar window from which I promulgate my personal point of view, I must first make it clear that I learn and apply life lessons directly from my own interpretation of mostly personal experiences. And because I also appreciate broader perspectives from a wide range of impersonal experiences, with a will to learn and apply as I see fit, I demand at least, a tolerance for my own beliefs, opinions and unique points of view, as long as in sincere pursuit of truth and I do not unwittingly try to infringe them upon you—And that’s some shit Najib would never do! Hit me, curse me, love me or ignore me. Hell, please suck me. Just don't tell me what is best for me.
WHERE THE SMOKE? FIERY EYES INQUIRE..
On a traditionally ordinary night, I was jolted violently back to life by a continuous banging on my door. “What on earth is going on, is it judgement day?” I asked the confounded clock on my phone screen, and it told me the only thing it really could: The time was somewhere well past 2 am. 2:32 I’d say— if I dared to be more confident in memory.
“POLICE!” two or three real voices from outside of the door, roared repeatedly in unharmonious choruses as if to firmly reply the lone lofty voice in my head. The door banging did not stop. The sound vibrations in that moment would make perfect music for condemned souls in hell— If the deity was serious about true torture.
At that time, three fellows laid valid claim to ownership of the sleeping space. Two of us were already deep in dreams before the very rude awakening. The other, who was barely just drifting into sleep of his own, had to pump the brakes and rush to pick up the most obvious items within his urgent reach; that he felt might persuade the demons at the front door to stay in our room a little longer than would be safe. He dashed out the back door, unto the balcony to discard an empty cigarette pack. “Who be that?!” fierce flashlights cried above, from downstairs, shinning loudly on the unsuspecting balcony lad. “Wetin you dey troway there?” I could hear the agents below inquire. By now, the other guy and I had welcomed two hefty men, who swaggered in gallantly, in hefty boots, carrying hefty guns and an aura of terror that was pungent with recent smell of alcohol. Their figures were almost completely black—clothes, skin and heart—except for the bright red vest that bore their identity. Spelled in white print, the label read: NDLEA. Woah! This wasn’t just police. Lol. These were the fucking feds!
The lad outside, due to his being suspected of throwing away something incriminating, had now thrown our dark room more into the light of their raving madness. At the front door, left behind by the movement of the big mean men and their big meaner guns, Muhammed stood sulking, meeker than a retarded sheep.
Muhammed was a temporary caretaker, charged to oversee the day to day running of the apartment’s affairs. But let's just say things were running Muhammed far more than he was running things—He seemed barely able to even comprehend them most times. He honestly did not have the required balls to manage anything beyond his own simple life. Behind him, another room was being ransacked and raided. His eyes were teary and full of solemn guilt. Just before I could ask why, a red vest agent coming out of the room behind him asked “You say na this room abi na that one?” And that’s when it hit me. Oh well, I guess the neighbours think I'm selling dope! And surprise surprise: Muhammed is a sorry snitch!
The vests appointed to our room wasted no time in unturning the place to find some sure contraband. The lad outside had been led back into the room and efforts to hide his hysteria—if any— were betrayed by his gross fearful face. But it was perfectly effective for pleading a case of ignorant innocence. Luckily, none of the men downstairs actually caught any part of his throw. And their impatient search around the compound turned nothing up, so his ad hoc excuse about being prompted by the startling noise to investigate any cause for alarm went smooth, through drunken ears into their booze filled bellies.
Moments into their relentless and dissatisfied search, a portly and contrastingly calm and collected man walked in, dressed differently in fine fitted casual attire—its attributes I never captured clearly enough to remember. “These ones look like good boys.” he observed at once, staring us —the original inside lads—down. “This one looks like the bad boy here” he turned to the Balcony boy. “See his lips na. You dey smoke abi?” he asked in confusingly jovial manner that his Hausa accent seemed to make harder to read—They all had the same accent, but his was the most mellifluous. “No sir, no sir” Balcony boy’s terror replied first. After a few tense seconds of silence, the obvious boss beaconed to his boys to let us be. But not before a short admonishment to stay away from ‘bad’ things and people, with a special fixation on the suspected shot-putter and his allegedly black lips. We showered their exit with some gratitude, then waited to see, or at least hear them disappear into safer distance. Shortly after they left, a few familiar neighborhood voices were heard pleading onto deaf ears, before being bundled unto a bus that drove then away, with all the noise and terror. Balcony Boy and I watched the vehicle disappear into the invisible dark, from the now safe view of the same vindicated balcony.
If you can recall, I started the story with a simple statement but I need you to grasp how pertinent it is to understanding its setting. “On a traditionally ordinary night”. This contextually means that as per usual fashion, this room being an abode to two serious stoners —serious at stoning but not much else— was not cleaned with particular care—if any at all, after the last smoking session, earlier that night: The officers specifically checked the floors for anything with a semblance to marijuana. Another crucial but so far untold part of the story is that there was some left over weed, somewhere in the same room. Of that fact, we were all undoubtedly sure. The only doubt was to its exact position. They searched everywhere it could possibly be, so where was it? We the owners elected to let the questions alone and count our graces. The most important fact in the miraculous relief, was that we had lived to smoke another day. As we retired back to our beds to attempt to seduce sleep again, Balcony lad’s sudden animation caught my half-sleepy attention. “I found it!” he said producing the nearly empty bag of weed from beneath his body. It was laid there, on the surface of the sheets, behind nothing but breeze.
SO WHAT NEXT?
The same bed had basically been dismantled in the dreaded search. How did they not find it? They thoroughly searched that axis, didn't they? These questions boggled our minds for all about half a minute before we reelected to roll up the lucky little joint and take relieving puffs of unprofane gratitude. And that, we did!
CONCLUSION
A more pragmatic observer could be tempted to string out possible rational theories to explain exactly what transpired, and they could probably conjecture it correctly. Some other observers may encourage an introspection on our rare luck and perhaps offer advice to take precaution, or to maybe see it as a wake up call to quit the shit and “mend thy ways”. If your judgment leans closely towards any of the aforementioned thoughts, that is truly great. Ofcourse there are usually more than one lesson to learn from serious life situations and I'm sure we will come to agree on matters of most. Watching your life (freedom) flash before your eyes, especially knowing you could have done something better or not done it at all, would reflect a certain change in attitude even in the lowest life forms. And from that night, I gained something very crucial indeed: Greater power to give even less fucks!
I understand how puzzling this conclusion can be, if your mind is wired to constantly seek safety. But it might make more sense when I contrast this particular story with another: The one time I got arrested in the same city. When the time comes, I do hope the second part finds you again, and in a better place too. It could be coming soon, or not. Till then, remain blessed— or Not
!