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ergeant Slaughter came for Pastor Job at 1 a.m. on a dark, moonless night. He came with thirty-five other policemen, most of them carrying Mark Four rifles or Smith and Wesson .38 calibre pistols.  They came in three vehicles: a patrol van, a Black Maria and a troop truck. With their steel helmets and wire-gauze face protectors, Sergeant Slaughter and his men looked sinister, like soldiers assaulting a military stronghold.

Sergeant Hassan, popularly called “Slaughter” by his colleagues at State Intelligence and Investigation Bureau, S.I.I.B., had a reputation for "slaughtering" suspects on the flimsy excuse that he shot them while they were trying to escape. No less than twelve suspects had been murdered by him under such contrived circumstances. As the policemen advanced towards Pastor Job's residence, Sergeant Slaughter prayed silently that the irrepressible pastor would pick the unlucky number thirteen.

The pastor's residence was second to the last on Ige Close, off Enwerem Motor Way. As soon as the patrol van turned into the Close, Sergeant Slaughter signaled a halt. The Black Maria pulled up behind the patrol van and Sergeant Slaughter ordered the driver to block the main entrance to the close with his vehicle. He stationed four of the notorious, trigger-happy mobile policemen beside the Black Maria. All other policemen in the troop truck were ordered to run silently down the Close, while Sergeant Slaughter coasted down in the patrol van. He was smiling in anticipation of the kill. He prayed that the man of God would put one foot wrong so he could pump bullets into him.

It was early November and the air was redolent of late rains and the threat of harmatlan. Ige Close was one of the elite resorts in Lagos. Most of the houses were designer structures, built to taste at any cost. Unlike other streets in the city where mountains of garbage gave off nauseating odours, the air in Ige Close was unpol1uled. There was a clean smell to it which gave the policemen from Downtown Lagos an unusual giddiness. S.I.I.B. Alapere was surrounded by heaps of refuse from which assorted putrid smells wafted constantly. Sergeant Slaughter and his men were used to it. So, this "sweet'' air in the close was nauseating to them.

As they moved deeper into the close, the smell of ripe petals from the flowers bordering the houses made Sergeant Slaughter to squirm in annoyance. He fumed under his breath in sheer envy: "Some people get good luck," he thought.  He was angry that "some people" lived in such antiseptic and beautiful environment, while he, after twenty-seven years of "meritorious service" to the nation, lived in a two-room apartment in the slums of Agege. Cramped into that apartment were his eleven children and two wives.

"Yet people like this useless pastor wey get only one wife and one pikin dey live inside this palace," thought Sergeant Slaughter with venom. He sighed aloud, taking consolation in the fact that he would soon rub the nose of the pompous pastor in the grime of a Downtown police cell. Or, better still, dump his bullet-riddled corpse at the Ikeja State Hospital mortuary with the usual tag, "Unknown Armed Robber", tied to his freezing big toe.

The patrol van coasted to a stop in front of Pastor Job's gate. The policemen spilled out, cocking their guns. The gate was locked, hut the policemen jumped over it unchallenged. Anenih, the maiguard, had left shortly after the crisis started. Sergeant Slaughter signaled his men to surround the house, while he and two other policemen walked up to the front door. The house was a stylish bungalow, with security light spilling from various points in the roof and in the walls. Slaughter stabbed the bell switch, once, twice, and then kept his finger permanently on it.

The sound of the clanging bell jerked Pastor Job out of his prayers. He usually held a private vigil with his family every Friday night till morning. Even though his wife packed out in protest some days earlier, old habits and present troubles would not allow the pastor to skip the vigil. Not even the mysterious absence of John, his most ardent and live-in supporter deterred him from his set course.

At midnight, Pastor Job began to praise the Lord in songs. Soon, he was caught up in the spirit of God and he began to pray in tongues. Just then, the clanging bell jarred him out of the spirit realm. The discordant sound also jarred his Alsatian puppy awake. The puppy jumped up from the couch where he had been sleeping and rushed at the door, barking loudly.

"Get down, Bingo!"

The dog obeyed reluctantly, growling in its throat. Pastor Job walked towards the door, wondering who his midnight visitor could be. Perhaps John was back from his mysterious assignment, thought the man of God.

2

"Who is there?"

"Sergeant Slaughter!" Slaughter kicked the door with his hard regulation boot. Bingo barked louder and clawed at the door. At the mention of the name "Slaughter", a cold draught swept over Pastor Job. He knew that the notorious homicide sergeant was on the pay-roll of his political rival, Chief Akilapa. He could also recollect the many scrapes he had had with the murderous policeman of recent. Only God saved him.

"What evil purpose could have brought Sergeant Slaughter to my house at this ungodly hour?" wondered Pastor Job. Sergeant Slaughter kicked the door in annoyance at the delay. "What do you want, Sergeant?"

"Open the door now or we go break am down!" He gave the door another vicious kick. "And if we break am down come get you, Pastor, even maggot go fine pass you. Allah!'

Pastor Job shrugged and offered a short prayer before opening the door to confront Sergeant Slaughter and two gun-totting mobile policemen.

"Yes?"

"Follow us to station!"

"Why?"

“You go know when we reach station.”

"That's illegal! Where is your warrant of arrest?"

"Here!"

The burly sergeant transferred his pistol to his left hand and dealt Pastor Job an open-handed slap across the face. The man of God fell to the ground. As he was getting up angrily, Slaughter cocked his pistol, praying that the pastor would defy his authority so that he would have an excuse for shooting him. But Bingo saved Pastor Job's life. The puppy sprang at Slaughter and sank his sharp teeth into his left calf. Slaughter yelped in pain and tried to shake off the small dog but Bingo held on tenaciously, his bite drawing blood. In desperate pain, Sergeant Slaughter shot him, the mercury-tinged bullet from his .38 rupturing his tiny loyal brain. The stout-hearted dog died without a whimper and Slaughter kicked him under the flowers.

3

"You beas..." began Pastor Job, shocked by such bestiality. But a murderous glare from

Slaughter froze the rest of the word in his throat. The man of God shuddered. Sergeant Slaughter suddenly howled a mirthless laughter which sent cold chills down the spines of both pastor and the other policemen.

"Bring am!"

Slaughter swaggered down the road, ignoring the pain his leg. Pastor Job was handcuffed and dragged towards the patrol van. As they went, the two policemen whispered to him that he was lucky to be alive. At the sound of the gun shot, many of the policemen lurking in the shadows had rushed out expecting to find the pastor's corpse sprawled in a bloodied heap at Slaughter's feet. They were amazed to find him alive.

Pastor Job was bundled into the patrol van. He was sandwiched in-between two policemen with bloodshot eyes and beer-reeking breaths. The vehicle sped up the street. At the entrance of the close, Pastor Job was transferred to the Black Maria. Before banging the door shut on the man of God, Slaughter poked his head in and jeered: "Enjoy your trip in the executive car, brother pastor!"

He fired a canister of teargas into the roomy enclosure and banged the door shut. It was like pouring dry pepper into the pastor's mouth, nostrils and eyes. Water gushed out of his eyes in rivulets; mucous oozed from his nose as if he was suffering from chronic catarrh. He later vomited copiously. What saved him was the fact that the vehicle took off like a rocket as soon as the teargas was fired into the detainee's enclosure. The man of God put his nose to the air vents and took in some fresh air as the Black Maria sped down the empty streets

When the vehicles screeched to a halt at Alapere, Slaughter yanked the door of the Black Maria open. He was grinning from ear to ear, expecting to see the prostrate form of the pastor on the floor of the vehicle. The last time he had locked a suspect in the poorly ventilated Black Maria and lobbed in a canister of teargas, the suspect had choked to death before they arrived at the station. So, he expected the troublesome pastor to be dead or, at the least, unconscious. But to his utter amazement, Pastor Job walked to the tail-board and jumped down from the truck by himself. And as he walked past the sergeant, the man of God looked him straight in the eye and said: "May the Lord forgive you!"

Slaughter raised his right hand to deal the pastor another teeth-rocking blow. On impulse, the pastor screamed: "Shekarabababababa!"

Sergeant Slaughter was stunned. He did not know that Pastor Job had spoken in tongues, but thought he had poured deadly incantations on him. A very superstitious man, Slaughter was shocked into immobility. The fear of the occult gripped him by the root of his soul and he trembled. He quickly transferred his menacing hand to his head and pretended to scratch an imaginary itch. He turned on his heels and marched into the station.

With awe Slaughter's men ushered Pastor Job into the charge room. A crowd had gathered there, most of them neighbours and relations of Chief Akilapa, Pastor Job's political rival. As soon as he entered, they shouted.

"Arsonist! Arsonist! Murderer! Murderer!"

Beatrice, Brother Ojo's former wife, flung herself at the pastor and grabbed him by the throat. Both fell down with Beatrice on top. The policemen beat back the crowd and disentangled Beatrice from the pastor. But not before she had torn his shirt and bitten him on the arm. The police hustled Pastor Job into the Interrogation Room.

"Why?" he asked himself aloud.

"Na me go ask you, mister pastor. You say you be man of God, yet you go put fire for the house of your political rival."

"But... but..."

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"Shadap!" shouted Slaughter. "We get solid witnesses o, so make you no lie at all at all. All of them see you with jerry can of petrol as you dey pour am and as you put am fire. Even sef, my own man here go testify against you for court. Abi you wan tell me say you no recognise dis corpu?"

Slaughter pushed forward a short police corporal with a boyish face. The policeman hissed at Pastor Job in supreme contempt.

''Na you, pastor,” said Corporal Shola. "Na you put fire for Oga's house. Na you knock me down when 1 challenge you. God done catch you today, you devil worshipper!"

He kicked Pastor Job in retaliation for his perceived hurt.

"But 1 know nothing about it," protested the man of God, struggling to his feet. "I was at home all night."

"Na lie!" shouted Slaughter. "Who be your witness?"

"I was the only one at home. God knows I'm not lying. God is my witness."

"God na your witness, eh?" Slaughter laughed. "Very well, when you appear for court tomorrow for arson, attempted murder and assault on a uniformed policeman, we go see if that your God go come down give evidence for you. Foolish man! Take him go Underground!"

At the mention of "Underground", Pastor Job quaked with fear. Since he made public his political ambition, he had been in and out of police cells. One place he had always dreaded to be detained was the infamous "Underground" which referred to a group of torture chambers in the basement of the two-storey S.I.I. B. building.

Scraps of information picked up among detainees in various police cells in Lagos had it that "Underground" comprised of Psychological Torture Chamber, Physical Torture Chamber and the Wet Room, a sound-proofed room where suspects were allegedly executed without trial.

While in detention at Alausa Police Post a short while ago, he had met a man who had been "through Underground". Prior to the man's incarceration at Underground, he had been an armed robber.  But by the time Pastor Job ran into him at Alausa Police Awaiting Trial cells, the man's active days were clearly over. He had lost his entire scrotum sack at Underground. He had lost all the fingers on his right hand at Underground. He had lost his frontal teeth, his left leg and one ear at Underground.

Most devastating was his loss of a quarter of his brain to the ghouls at Underground. "U.G.", meaning "Underground Graduate" are the initials policemen fondly affixed to the name of survivors of Underground. U.G. Bassey, the man Job met at Alausa Police cells was one-quarter crazy upon graduation!  Job had dreaded Underground ever since, but like his biblical namesake, what he feared most was about to happen to him. His fear had come home to roost!

Two wiry kill-and-gos, the unsavoury but apt sobriquet Nigerians have given to mobile policemen, dragged Job towards Underground. As they descended the stairs, two policemen met them and shook their heads in mock sympathy. A corporal who appeared more learned than his rank and certification even snapped off a mock-salute, saying: "Those about to die, we salute!"

Job's kill-and-gos laughed like braying horses. The pastor looked from one to the other and concluded that they were not human beings but Satan incarnate. At the bottom of the stairs was a small reception presided over by the Registrar of Underground, Police Constable Awesu. P.C. Awesu was a "colo of all colos".

The Nigerian Police is metaphorically made up of "colos and cadets". "Cadets" is the colos’ derogatory term for their better educated but relatively inexperienced bosses. These are usually graduates of institutions of higher education. Most joined the force as cadet inspectors or cadet superintendents. Upon graduation from the police college, they usually assumed considerable power and status in the force.

Because they usually boss the "colos" despite their relative inexperience, the latter hate "cadets" passionately. In the uniformed services, a junior officer must salute his seniors wherever he sees them. But most "colos” give the "lame-hand salute" to "cadets". And when they can get away with it, they do not salute them at all. The common joke among colos is: "If confronted by a snake and a cadet, kill the cadet and free the snake!" Cadets also hate colos with a white-hot passion. "Colos" is their own derogatory term for the old-fashioned, slow, officious and ill-educated policemen who constitute the bulk of the rank and file of the Nigeria Police, "Colos" is the shortened form of "colonial mentality". The phrase encapsulates the contempt of "cadets" for their experienced but ill-read juniors.

"Colos" and "cadets" are enmeshed in an unending war of attrition. Heel digging is a common feature of this silent war. Often-times, "colos" deliberately sabotaged investigations being conducted by "cadets," leading to the reprimand or dismissal of the affected officers and the imprisonment or execution of innocent men. In police parlance, this is known as "digging". Cadets respond by sitting on the promotion of "colos" and by writing negative reports about them. Cadets joked among themselves: "The intelligence of a colo is inversely proportional to the size of his boots!"

P.C. Awesu was a "colo of all colos," meaning that he was an old man colo. A short, pot-bellied man of about fifty, Awesu had put in some thirty years into the Force, but had not been promoted once. He was a bitter old man with a permanent grudge against the whole world and against God. He regarded his appointment as Registrar of Underground as a bonanza, a promotion of sorts. Since his appointment two years ago, he had built a bungalow on the outskirts of Lagos. He did not live there, however, to ward off suspicion. A pragmatic man to the core, P.C. Awesu had successfully converted his duty post to a toll gate of sorts.

No suspects exited Underground alive without "settling" Awesu. The settlement ranged from two hundred naira to a thousand, depending on the physical state of the graduate. Those able to walk out on their feet paid less than those requiring stretchers and immediate hospitalization. Graduates in the latter category usually paid through their noses before being "signed" out. Some indigent suspects had been known to have bled to death in the Registry because they had no money and had no relations or friends to settle Awesu. Only dead suspects paid no settlement. And there had been too many of such recently, too many for the financial well-being of Awesu. Dead men paid no settlement.

The Registrar regarded the trio coming down the stairs with measured distaste. His normally venomous countenance puckered into a violent scowl. P.C. Awesu hated all men of God. His first wife had been snatched by a randy catechist. Ever since, Awesu regarded all men of God as serpents.

Job's escort dumped him at Awesu's feet, but the Registrar did not dignify him with a glance. Neither did he dignify the mobile policemen with a salute even though one was a lance-corporal and the other a full corporal. They, too, did not take offence at that. It was well known at S.I.I.B. that Awesu was a law unto himself in his Registry. He would not salute any officer below the rank of C.P., commissioner of police. The best compliment he could pay to "colo" officers below the rank of C.P. was to stand up while attending to them in his Registry. Cadet officers he had no regards for, and "scum and ragamuffins" like these two, P.C. Awesu would not give the time of day.

"After all," he thought, "dem still dey for womb when I join the Force."

It was also a well-known fact that a Deputy Inspector-General of police was Awesu's godfather. He delivered regular "returns" to his godfather every Friday morning. The last return was ten thousand naira. So, at S.I.I.B., Alapere, the fear of Awesu was the beginning of wisdom.

"Whose meat?" barked the Registrar without preamble.

"Sergeant Slaughter!" responded the corporal.

"Ah, such a nice man. E go need D.C. as usual, eh?"

 "Not likely, Registrar. This one dey go court soon."

"Bad business!" Awesu groaned as he opened the register.

It was a Friday morning and he was in a foul mood because he had only collected eight thousand naira. He would not be able to settle his godfather like he did the previous week. He had hoped to supply Slaughter with D.C.'s acronym for "Death Collectors". D.C.'s supplied stretchers and assisted dying graduates to get to the hospital.

For any transaction requiring D.C's he usually collected thousands of naira from the I.P.O., Investigating Police Officer, and the suspects' relations. Any other transactions constituted "bad business" because they usually brought Awesu less “settlements”.

“Name!" barked Awesu cantankerously.

"Nameless!" responded the corporal. He slapped ten fifty naira notes on the table.

Awesu scowled at the five hundred naira for a while. He knew he should not touch it but his greed would not allow common sense prevail. Five weeks earlier, he almost lost his job over the Arigo Plumber case.

 Arigo Plumber was a robbery suspect illegally tortured to death at Underground. It was later discovered that Arigo Plumber was a MINT officer, the Military Intelligence unit of the Nigerian Army. His real name and rank was Sergeant Bisi Adeojo. He had been investigating some suspected coup plotters who were recruiting discharged soldiers. An anti-robbery raid cornered him at Mushin, a hideout of the notorious Arigo Plumber robbery gang. Even though he protested his innocence vehemently, the I.P.O. ordered him to Underground where he was tortured to death.

Somehow, word got to MINT headquarters. Bonny Camp, that the police had killed an officer. At the best of times, Nigerian soldiers regarded policemen as "bloated cockroaches". Their grouse was the opportunity that policemen had to mount illegal road blocks along all routes. There they collected daily "egunje"- bribes - from commercial drivers. Being confined to barracks, soldiers had no such bribe-taking opportunities leading to the impecuniousness of soldiers with respect to their "junior" colleagues in the police.

Soldiers resented this. The recent spate of killing of soldiers by some trigger-happy mobile policemen at different checkpoints in Lagos had not helped matters too. So, when news got to Bonny Camp that "bloated cockroaches" had killed an "officer", irate soldiers took up arms and hit the streets of Lagos.

They attacked any policemen in sight, killing some and maiming many. Several police stations were sacked by the angry soldiers. Buses and taxis were stopped indiscriminately and any uniformed policeman found would be subjected to severe beatings.

P.C. Awesu's hunch saved him that day. The night of Arigo Plumber’s murder, he had had a nightmare in which he saw coup plotters cutting off the head of policemen and throwing same into boiling oil. Over the gruesome pot floated the ghost if his father, shouting: "Beware of the Ides of Uniforms!"

An undiluted illiterate, P.C. Awesu had never heard of Shakespeare. He could not understand what "Ides" meant. Still, he guessed that his dead father had come to warn him against wearing his uniform too often.

The following morning, Awesu left his house in the slums of Agege in the most uncharacteristic manner. Usually, he wore his uniform to and from work. It was his guarantee of free transport throughout the day. The common practice among Lagos policemen was to board any commercial vehicle, especially "molue" and pay no fares. Even though the practice was illegal, commercial drivers had learnt to turn a blind eye.

But that morning, Awesu emerged from his house dressed in mufti, except for his regulation boots which he put on. Other items of his uniform he carried inside a black nylon bag. He boarded a "molue" at Pen Cinema, unaware of the danger lurking ahead. He got to Ikeja safely and boarded another vehicle going to Maryland. A police friend, P.C, Njoku, could not find standing space in Awesu's bus and ran to join the bus in front. He was dressed in his uniform.

The first indication of trouble occurred just before the military barracks at Maryland. There was a tortuous traffic jam caused by armed soldiers who were searching all vehicles thoroughly. "It must be a coup," said Awesu to the man beside him. The latter merely shrugged. Having witnessed as many as seven coups in thirty-five years, many Nigerians have come to accept coups as the rule rather than the exception.

Awesu stood up to watch the happenings in front.  P.O. Njoku was hanging like a bat on the tail-board of the vehicle in front. He was chatting animatedly with one of the conductors. Awesu was about to alight and chat with Njoku when he saw two soldiers point at him. What happened next was a scene right out of the Hammer House of Horrors series.

"Police! Police!" shouted the soldiers to their colleagues. About seven soldiers in combat fatigues ran towards Njoku who looked on bemused. They dragged Njoku down from the bus. They rained blows on him with the butt of their AK-47 riffles. Njoku shouted "Espirit de Corps!" to no avail. The murder of Arigo Plumber had snapped the tenuous, wafer-thin bond of brotherhood supposedly binding members of the uniformed services.

The soldiers beat P.C. Njoku to a state of coma. Afterwards, they threw his blood-soaked body into the gutter. They then swooped on other vehicles, shouting: "Come down. Police! Come down. Police!"

They forced their way into Awesu's vehicle, searching for anybody that wore police uniform. Seeing none, they got down and waved the vehicle forward. Throughout the search, Awesu held his breath. He had quickly thrown the nylon bag containing his uniform into a nearby thicket and hid his booted feet under the seat in front of him. He had never been closer to death all his life.

Altogether, fourteen policemen lost their lives that bloody day. Shortly after, the Inspector-General of Police issued several "orders". One of them was that all detainees should be properly identified. The O. C. Alapere, C.P. Jones also ordered that nobody should be sent to Underground illegally or without proper identification. That last order was, however, verbal as Underground did not exist officially. Still, "orders is orders" and to violate it could be ruinous to one's career.

All these passed through Awesu's mind as he scowled at the winking five hundred naira. Obedience and greed wrestled on his face, but greed finally won. He scooped up the money and stuffed it in his breast pocket. He snapped shut the register, took a set of keys from his pocket and advanced towards a large steel door

Pastor Job had watched the whole transaction like a man in a trance.   The Registrar turned the key in the lock.  Job thought: 'When did I become a piece of beef to be haggled over and battered away?"

His escorts dragged him towards the steel door.