What is it about taking pictures? What price can you pay for taking a policeman’s picture when he is in a compromising situation? Are you willing to take the risk? Ask Senior Correspondent, Evelyn Osagie, who recounts her ordeal in the hands of an overzealous policeman during the elections.
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
I sit behind my desk for the umpteenth time this month with worrying thoughts. Each of those times, I would urge myself before sitting down, “write Evelyn, write”. Most of those times, I would walk to my desk with a renewed eagerness to write, sit down, begin the first paragraph and end up staring into space with a cold shiver running deep down my spine, which leaves me with a feeling of déjà vu.
“Na by force to write, the thing don pass, forget am,” a friend, who was tired of seeing me “punish myself” as she puts it, would often taunt me to drop the subject and try my hands on something else. “Go to Zungeru or any of those mountains you go to for exclusives and leave the matter alone. God don save you, wetin again. Police people terrible O! No try them. What if they had maimed you.”
It was not that I was having trouble writing down my experience the day I got into trouble taking the picture of a police officer, who was harassing a lawyer, after being caught in a very compromising position while on election duty. Ironically, my crime, he said, was poking my nose into what did not concern me. I had still not gone past the fact that I got caught making extra effort to hear all sides out. “I wanted his side of the story…for objectivity sake,” I’d said. It was a gesture editors, who heard, termed: “foolish”. “You got an exclusive and wasted it,” they all said.
The fears and horrifying thoughts, the dry throat and hunger pangs that bedevilled me those six hours spent at the police station still haunted me. After being made to delete the photographs and sign an undertaking not to attempt such an act again in the future, one wonders how free is the freedom of the press. I’ve learnt in a hard way how harsh the price people pay for justice.
It is happening again. This is what happens each time I tried pencilling down my experience, I would drift into these thoughts, exhale as if choking and end with the rhetoric question, “What are you afraid of?”
As I put pen to paper behind my desk for another try at writing, I am drifting again. But, surprisingly, I have gone beyond the first, and I’m now in the sixth paragraph. It could be likened to the story of the fight between a mythical lion and leopard over a certain issue, and how the leopard, an onlooker, who was attempting to intercede, got caught in the middle.
Saturday, March 28, 2015
The presidential election may have come and gone. But I remember that Saturday morning too well. I remember having two things on my mind at the crack of dawn. I was going to vote and cover the elections.
As I left my home after listening to Asa’s song, I made a list of centres to visit, outline women’s involvement in the process and sample the thoughts of businesswomen. Beforehand, I was going to get accredited, and then, go get my story. But the day’s experience taught me to respect the wise saying: “Don’t judge the day by the early morning weather”.
I got to the centre around 11am and made for the queue to get accredited, but was told that women were given special privilege to get accredited and vote without joining the long queue. “That was good,” I said as my journalistic instinct screamed, “a good story too”.
A sampled opinion through calls from family and friends revealed the privilege was unique to my centre. Before coming there I’d visited another close by, but found nothing interesting in the place so I left for mine.
The lady Traffic Warden was “on point”; ensuring people were not jumping the queue. Within minutes, I was through with accreditation. I was “Number 797” on the queue and was ready to hit the streets before the voting started. I decided to start from that centre.
I did some interviews and was on my last when a man, who introduced himself as a lawyer, came, complaining bitterly. “Journalist, please come, there is a police officer who is supposed to be on duty, but is drinking beer with some people close by. People are jumping the queue and the woman officer cannot handle it alone,” he said.
I told him I was on my last interview and would join him shortly. But that was not to be. Before I could say jack, pandemonium broke out and that was how I was disenfranchised. And my preferred candidate lost one vote.
The police officer had caught and waylaid the lawyer with his drinking fellows, demanding his phone. Before long, the lawyer was slapped and accused of disturbing public peace.
He was caught in the act; and I got the officer in camera. But instead of leaving the scene with the six “exclusive shots”, I decided to investigate the issue thoroughly by speaking to the parties involved. This was around 11 O’clock
I spoke to the Traffic Warden, the policeman’s drinking fellows and onlookers. Each had different versions of the story. I then waited to talk to the officer in question. That was my undoing.
As I approached him with a smile to ask what really happened, one of his “bedfellows” screamed, “she also took your picture”. That was what the officer, whose mouth reeked of alcohol, needed to hear. “Why do you come here and take my picture; who authorised you?” he screamed, dragged and tore my camera from my hand.
“I am a journalist with The Nation and I am here to ask you questions with regards…” Nothing I said mattered.
“Where is your ID card?” All efforts to explain, that I had lost my purse with my ID and ATM card inside some days before at Oshodi and had even requested my bank to block my ATM card, and that my complimentary card was somewhere in my bag, proved abortive.
He was busy searching through the pictures on my camera; on seeing the picture where he was grabbing the lawyer’s trousers, all hell broke loose. He threatened fire and brimstone, and promised to arrest and send me to court for this embarrassment. Some people suggested to him that the pictures should be deleted and the matter rested. Next thing I knew he radioed his office and three stern-looking policemen arrived on tricycle. I was to be arrested along with the lawyer.
But before leaving I asked what my crime was. “You will find out when you get to the station,” they answered.
As they drove to Pen Cinema Police Station, I reached for my phone and found it was gone; I scattered my bag in search of my complimentary cards and found none. That was when I became agitated. “How do I reach the office, my family and friends now?” Many scenes of police brutality on films flashed through my mind. I uttered a silent prayer, but put up a strong face.
As we arrived it was as if the station was waiting for us. “I think una say una no go leave police alone! We go show you wetin e mean to take police picture without permission.” The officers were angry and ready to make scapegoats of us. I made another prayer to God and tried to keep a straight face.
We were met by a female DPO on special assignment to that station, who said she studied Mass Communication. “As you got to centre did you take snapshots of the police officers when they were doing their duties.” I said I did. The furious-looking DPO then asked that the case be handled by the DCO, Mrs Margaret Yinka-Akingbade.
During the DCO’s interview of the said officer, who I later found was called Mr Tawose Sola, he explained that he had sat with the men to forestall any unrest and had spent N5, 000 from his purse on drinks, following an information he received. I wondered why it took him until he got to the station before he explaining himself.
She asked for my IDs and I told her what happened and ask that they place a call to my office to verify my statement.
We were told write our statement. I was booked; feeling sad I spent over 30 minutes crafting a statement. While waiting to receiving our statements, IPO Akin, who was asked to book us, reiterated his colleagues’ words, while asking that be fast with as they had other pressing issues to handle. I kept asking what crime I committed and asked to call my office. To my surprise, he offered his phone and I called my Desk Head, who, in turn, got across to the PPRO and Deputy Commissioner of Police (Operations). By then, I was dying of thirst and asked to get water.
After a long and uncertain wait, I asked for water again, and as we were being transferred to Area G Command in Ogba, a SUPOL, who later became very friendly, gave me water. On getting to the Area Commander, after listening to us, asked the DCO to caution and let us go.
We were, then, taken back to Pen Cinema Police Station where we were made to sign an undertaking, not to do that again, before we were let off the hook. This was after I was made to delete the “incriminating” photographs showing Mr Sola harassing the lawyer.
I remember laughing as I wrote. But “not to do it again, hmm” I shook my head but felt too dizzy to think and “biting” hunger pangs; it was past close to Six O’clock. The SUPOL insisted that I ate with her. Fear gripped me at first, but I was too hungry to care.
I was then asked to leave. As I walked back to check for my phone at the centre, I met a crowd rejoicing that their candidates won the centre. “This would make good shot I thought”, I thought. The police officer was there again, this time, he was threatening to send me back to jail for taking pictures of people. I ran off to avoid a repeat of the earlier incident.
Interestingly, while on my way home I met my female neighbours, who said they were coming for my rescue. It came as a surprise that their husbands had informed them and they took the initiative to come in search of me – “talk about Jesus and the women at the tomb”.
Saturday, April 11, 2015
Two weeks after, I remember standing in the shower on the morning of the governorship election and drifting to that ‘thought’ place again. One of my editors, Mr Lekan Otufodurin had asked me, “Given the same situation, Evelyn, would you take the same action?”
The answer left me shivering, but not from the cold splashing water, caressing my face.
“I was jinxed like Sisi Calabar had said”, I thought, “I had to break it.” What perfect day to break free than another Election Day. “Hopefully, the day would go differently.”
I figured since the incident happened during the presidential election, a fresh experience would help wash away bad memories. But I could only go beyond my door before my stomach turned out of fear and I ran inside to take a leak. By the time I was done and ready to go out, it was way past noon and my friends/neighbours insisted on going with me “to keep you safe,” as they put it.
We still joke over the way they marched towards the station, like ancient amazons of war, as if they were ready to take on an entire battalion. But whether they succeed or not in keeping me out of trouble was another day’s tale.
And every time I am asked “Given the same situation, Evelyn, would you take the same action?” The answer still leaves me shivering, but not from splashing raindrops, and I’d answer: “You know the rest.”
