Elnathan john, p.7
Elnathan John, page 7
and paper to write the statement then still end up paying the ransom. My point is, calm down and let
us negotiate.
I want you to be reasonable. I am not suggesting you are unreasonable. God forbid. I was raised
in a good Christian home and I cannot accuse a brother falsely. You are my brother, let us not argue,
even if you are from Cameroon. We are all brothers. Unless you are white — not that I am racist but I
know you are not white. I am only saying that I am encouraging you to do what you normally would
have done, which is, be reasonable.
I want you to understand that even though you may have read my name or the name of my book in
the New York Times or The Guardian UK, it does not mean anything. I have no money. Despite what
anyone tells you, writers are poor. My publishers give me only 10% of the profit per book. And let’s
be honest, I can never know how many books my publisher actually sells. If they tell me they sold
only 100, I can’t prove they sold thousands. This 10% book business is not much better than hawking
Gala and La Casera and pure water and scotch egg in traffic. (I don’t understand people who eat
scotch egg in public transport in traffic. They stink up the bus and they look silly opening their mouths
wide to bite into it. If not that you can’t get much out of them, I would have said those are the kind of
people who deserve to be kidnapped. Those ones and the agents of darkness who eat moin-moin in
offices and on buses.) Plus, when the advance on my book came in 2016, I took more than half of it
and paid it to my landlord in Abuja. If you had not already gone through the trouble of kidnapping me,
I would have suggested that you should have taken my Abuja landlord instead of me. Or one of those
annoying neighbours with a loud generator. Or you take my publisher, who in the end makes far more
money than I do.
My point is, I am a poor writer. All those countries you see me going to, I don’t pay for it. There
are nice people in many countries who have read my book and pay for me to come and read there.
They don’t even really pay. They just buy my ticket and give a couple hundred dollars as a per diem
(if I am lucky) and by the time you have gone out twice abroad, the money is all finished. You can’t
even buy a decent perfume at the airport on your way back. And you know how Nigerians are. Once
they know you travelled abroad, there will be a queue outside your house of people waiting for gifts.
Some will even send you a list (without money). And if you ignore them, they will say you are proud.
They will remind you of the time nobody knew you and only them cared about you. They will call you
ungrateful.
I also do not have a rich family. My father is a retired civil servant and my mother, well, unless you
can sell her clothes and hair products, there is no money to be made there. (I had heard that my mother
had other richer suitors, but why my mother chose to marry a poor man is a story for another day). So,
just ask for a little money and we can all be happy.
However, while the negotiations are going on, I have a few requests. Notice I didn’t say
demands. Your ransom is a demand which, don’t get me wrong, you deserve. I am only begging. As a
writer, I want to at least make something out of the kidnapping experience. I need to write about it.
You make the ransom money, I make some good writing and fame out it. At-all at-all na im bad pass.
If possible, I want a selfie. Because you know how our generation is. If there is no photo or video or
link, it did not happen. You can die these days and the children of the devil on the internet will ask
your family announcing it for photos or links so they can believe you are truly dead. I already said I
won’t do anything funny like try to call the police. We both know how useless that is (this is not an
American film where their police trace kidnapper calls and show up commando style). And really, I
expect that as a professional you would have blindfolded me on the way to your business premises.
Or we can just use an actual digital camera. If you don’t have one we can buy one — just take the
money from the ransom when you get it. Or ask, as a preliminary demand before actual negotiations
that they send a camera. (If it wasn’t too much to ask, I might have asked if you would let me sneak a
couple of my own demands into your list of demands. But you alone worked for this kidnapping and I
won’t just come and ride on your hustle. That would be opportunistic. You know, like when a woman
struggled with some rough guy for over a decade, patiently cleaned him up, married and made him
decent, and then some random woman sees him on the street corner and thinks he was always this
wonderful and tries to snatch him. Or like all those criminals who got elected across the country by
affixing Buhari’s photo to their campaign posters. That kind of opportunistic. God forbid.)
One good suggestion is to play some games while we are waiting. I find that boredom kills. Look
at the damage our bored legislators do because there is no real work to be done; making music
videos, having threesomes, padding budgets and all. I suggest Ludo. Or WHOT. Also, talk to me. I
want to hear your story. I will tell you mine. That you kidnapped me does not mean we can’t gist a
little. You may find that we have more in common than you ever imagined.
(And please don’t worry about food. I am not proud. I have no special dietary requirements. I
will eat what you eat. And since everyone is worried about equality and diversity these days, have
you thought of having female members in your kidnapping company — or more female members if
you already have some? That would be great.)
God bless your hustle. And may you or your loved ones never, ever be kidnapped.
LAW AND LAW ENFORCEMENT
HOW TO BE A LAWYER
Life is challenging. There is a reason your poor family decided to pool resources to send you to Law
School. They didn’t send you there to take the long route — serving some stingy senior lawyer or law
firm for 5-10 years before you can afford to make it on your own. (I will treat the issue of stingy
senior lawyers another day.)
When people ask me how it feels like to be a lawyer, I often save them from the disappointment
that the truth is sure to give them; I shrug, smile and add to whatever mystery already exists in their
head.
But you my faithful reader — especially you the new lawyer or law student — I will tell the truth.
I want you to at least, like your banker colleagues, be able to afford to pay your own rent and buy a
clean second-hand car in the first to second year of your call to the Nigerian Bar.
Register your private law firm as soon as you finish and print your letter head and complimentary
cards. Your cards especially should have your full and imposing title: Barrister and Solicitor of the
Supreme Court of Nigeria. I mean a lawyer knows that’s all hot air but to a non-lawyer it makes you
seem like you learnt under Saint Paul himself and have your office right in the Supreme Court.
Hustling must start immediately whether you work in a law firm or not.
Learn how to eavesdrop on people’s conversation for any possible legal services they may need.
Somebody’s wife was slapped. Apologise for butting in, then quickly inform them that under our legal
system, that is a crime called assault. You are a lawyer and you can help them. By help you mean take
their money. If they look at you funny, whip out your card. They will see that full title which is a
killer. Suddenly you will appear more intelligent, more important.
When you walk into a big store, don’t just buy stuff and leave. If you can see the manager, ask if
they have registered their business with the Corporate Affairs Commission. Company registration is a
no-brainer. Yes, serious lawyers snub it and all but what do you care? Offer to register their business
for less than what your colleagues charge. The whole idea is turnover. If you have many companies to
register at the same time, it won’t matter that you are charging less (and spoiling business for other
hustling lawyers).
You must never ignore police stations. There is always money to be made there. Anyone who
calls you a charge and bail lawyer, God will consume them by fire. Take keen interest in the affairs of
your neighbours. There is always someone dragging someone to the police station or someone being
arrested for something. Don’t wait until you are called. Go there and offer your services. Trouble is
your business.
The art of securing bail is one that only the streetwise can handle. No one will teach you that in
school. They teach you crap like “bail is free” and “no one must be held for more than 24 hours
without charge”. Bah! The police in Nigeria don’t care what you’ve been taught, in fact, the more
legal you get, the more complicated things get for your prospective client. And trust me there is
nothing worse than messing up a neighbour’s case. You don’t want to be sneaking into your own
neighbourhood at odd hours. I have only, in my few years of legal practice, secured one free bail. And
that was only because the DPO was on the Investigating Police Officer’s (IPO) case for something
else. I cashed in on his confusion and by the time he realised I was not going to give him any money,
my client had been released and bond papers signed. He however took me to the side and gave me a
good talking to: ‘na you make your client no give us anything abi? Ok! Ok! Ok!’
Moral of the story? 1. Common sense is more useful than law inside a police station. 2. You have
no friends inside a police station. 3. Bail is hardly ever free.
You must learn how to negotiate with the Investigating Police Officer (IPO), firmly, respectfully
and pragmatically. Learn this and you will become a hot cake in your community, making so much
money that you won’t care if anyone calls you charge and bail.
To avoid the stereotypical look of the struggling Nigerian lawyer — shirts that were once white,
shoe soles eaten to a 45-degree angle, a heavy tattered bag containing everything from your wig and
gown to dozens of company registration forms and affidavit forms — you need to also be an estate
agent. You must befriend as many landlords as you can so that you will have signboards reading ‘TO
LET’ on as many empty houses as possible.
Look for people trying to sell houses or land and help them aggressively market it. You never
know which 10% commission will take you permanently out of poverty. When you have sold that
expensive house and ride home in a Range Rover Sport (with NBA stickers in front and behind) no
one will bother if you ever go to court or not. Your neighbours will hail you as you drive past:
‘Barristaa!’
It is no surprise that struggling lawyers are the most hated in their families. The reason is simple.
After supporting you morally and otherwise to become a lawyer, the least they expect from you is to
make reasonable contributions at family events and send money into their accounts when they call
you.
God forbid that you become a struggling Nigerian lawyer. Follow my advice and your family and
neighbours will think you are the best thing since Saturday banking. As always, God bless your hustle.
HOW TO BE A POLICE OFFICER
You didn’t know it would be like this when you were applying. You just knew you wanted a job. Your
relatives came together and contributed the money you put in an envelope to grease the wheels that
would roll you through the various recruitment levels. Money that was probably going to be bigger
than your first salary. But no amount of money is too big for the privilege of wearing that uniform.
You were excited about the new uniform. About the rank. The serial number. Your name on your
breast. But no one told you. No one whispered it into your ear that you would be serving an
ungrateful, hateful bunch of people who think you are the worst thing since discovering palm oil on
your white shirt as you walk into school on a Monday morning.
You do not understand the hate. You cannot make sense of the lies they tell about you. But you
will do your duty and serve your fatherland (or is it motherland you can never tell) in spite of all the
naysayers and bad belle people. You will be a police officer.
The Checkpoint
God forbid that they put you on checkpoint duty. Someone has to do it. Someone has to flag down cars
and shine a weak torch into people’s faces. Someone has to salute the people in nice cars and remind
them that their “boys are loyal”. And especially on the weekend, someone has to wish the law-
abiding citizens “happy weekend”. Who else will give road users the privilege of showing their
appreciation for the selfless work you do, with a bit of cash? You are not doing anything wrong. Think
if there were no beggars in Nigeria. If they all went on strike. All those people who go to marabouts
and juju priests would have nowhere to give up the offerings that form part of the rituals. You perform
a serious duty. Take it seriously. Raise your voice when you ask: “Anything for the boys?” or “Oga
how e go be na?” or “Madam de Madam!” Be proud of who you are. Be confident. Look people in the
eye. Don’t squeeze the notes you receive. Fold them nicely, put it in your front pocket and slap it
gently to make it sit comfortably. God sees your heart.
The Station
People may scrunch up their noses when they walk into a police station without asking, “Why does
this place smell like an abandoned public secondary school male toilet on a Friday afternoon?” They
will not ask why the walls have to look like a kitchen of a motor park bukka. They will judge you
over a small thing like filth and stench. Your intention is not to make anyone comfortable in there. You
want the suspects to reflect. To think of the crime they may or may not have done. To be so moved by
all of the sights and smells to repentance. To come to a point where they hate crime. The people who
judge you do not understand that as a police officer you are a literary person. The walls and floors
are a metaphor for the hearts of the criminals: dirty. You want to hold up a mirror to them. You do it
for their own good. You do not want a nice comfortable police station where people will commit
crimes just to spend the night as if it were a motel. God forbid that your station becomes a motel. (It
does not matter if they are innocent. The fact that they got arrested means that at least, they followed
bad gangs. And did someone important not say: show me your friends and I will tell you the kind of
person you are?)
And you know, if you ask me, I would introduce a standard fee for paper when people need to
write a statement. You do not fetch paper from the street. People should stop being stingy and support
your station with the right kind of stationery.
The Pot Belly
You may start out thin and flat bellied. Do not see that as a thing of pride. You will look awkward
with your police uniform tucked into a thin waist with your stomach looking like a chalk board.
People won’t respect you if you look hungry. Whether you are male or female, this applies to you.
You need to slowly work your way to making your uniform look good and make the journey around
your large belly. That way you look like authority and when you tuck in your uniform, you look
menacing enough to stop crime. God forbid a flat, hungry belly. It will not be your portion.
The Patrol Vehicle
Like I said, you are a literary person. You are deep. Your patrol vehicle is another example of a
symbol and a metaphor all in one. Don’t mind the people who watch Hollywood movies and want to
bring fiction into reality, wanting police patrol vehicles to look nice and neat, complete with bumpers
and fenders, rear lights, windshields and a radio that works. Your patrol vehicle is a metaphor for the
struggle of society. The dents are a metaphor for the deep impressions you want to make on people.
The broken indicator is a metaphor for all the broken things which indicate how problematic crime
can be, broken things which you intend to fix. Your job is to fight crime, not have a nice car. Leave
nice cars for politicians. Nobody has time for that. Do not bother with replacing lights. Hold together
broken or cracked bumpers with nice thick copper wire. You are like that copper wire, holding the
fabric of society together. And for this God will bless you.
The Barracks
As a humble person, you do not care about looking flashy. The barracks is where people can best see
your humility. In the open sewers. In the litter. In the bushes and shrubs. In the half-naked children
everywhere. The barracks have to show how down to earth you are. So down to earth you do not care
about kempt surroundings. If you see someone obsessively cutting grass, cleaning the gutters, bearing
children responsibly or sweeping the streets, it is a sign that they don’t have work to do. And we all
