THE ILLUSION OF PERFECTION 18

 

“Guy, na you,” the man insisted, stepping closer, his breath smelling of bitter herbs and hunger. “Fine suit. Big boy life. You dey ride that black jeep like say na your papa own this Lagos. You don pay your tax?” 

Tayo backed into the cold iron, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The walls of the cell seemed to shrink further, the heat of their bodies pressing in on him. He could feel the violence brewing, gathering strength, the beating waiting to be born. His ribs still ached from the rough-handling of the arrest and the earlier fall, so Tayo knew he wouldn’t survive a beating from men who had nothing left to lose. 

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The clang of metal against metal startled the men and their eyes darted toward the cell door which instantly flew open. The harsh, yellow glare of the lone bulb on the corridor flooded the darkness as a young officer stepped inside, his shadow cutting through the tension. His voice cracked the air.

“Wetin dey happen here?”

The men straightened, hissing their displeasure while backing away from Tayo and retreating into the corners. The officer moved closer, his face now visible. Tayo blinked rapidly, recognition dawning. It was a face he had run into a couple of times at the neighborhood. Hope flickered, small and trembling, but alive.

The officer glared at the men, then turned to leave but Tayo spoke, his voice breaking the silence.

“Please… I—I want. Can I make a call. Just one. Abeg.”

The old Tayo would never beg. But that Tayo was gone. All that remained was a vulnerable man begging to be saved.

The officer stopped, his back a rigid wall while Tayo's plea hung in the air like an unanswered prayer. Without a word, he stepped out and the door slammed shut leaving Tayo to the burning stares of the men in the shadows.

Time didn’t just pass; it dragged like a heavy chain. Tayo counted breaths, heartbeats, seconds, the boots shuffling outside the cell and the drops of water dripping from the ceiling. His eyes stayed glued to the bars as though redemption lived just beyond them.

Then the door screamed open once more and hope burned within him.

The same officer stood there. His face had a grave expression. He jerked his head and Tayo scrambled up, almost running out of the cell.

 They walked past mocking laughter, past eyes full of spite and the sneering faces of other cell-mates. Tayo kept his eyes focused on a spot on the officers back, while praying silently, hoping he was not going to be punished for his earlier request.

The officer suddenly stopped and Tayo slowly lifted his gaze. They were near the front counter. The fluorescent light above buzzed like a swarm of angry bees while a battered mobile phone sat on the counter, its screen scratched from a thousand desperate hands—scarred, tired, overused.

The officer shoved it toward him.

“Make it fast.”

Tayo wanted to thank him, but the officer turned away as if maintaining eye contact with him would sully his image. 

Without hesitation, Tayo lifted the phone. His hands shook so hard he almost dropped it. His throat burned. His chest tightened as he dialed the one number that could pull him back from this devastating nightmare.

 

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