A Crooked Justice

A Crooked Justice

The air in Ikorodu that evening carried the heavy scent of impending rain mixed with the metallic tang of Lagos’s urban chaos. Ayo Alabi, a 21-year-old engineering student at a prestigious university in Abuja, had just stepped off the rickety bus that had ferried him from Jibowu motor park. The city’s symphony of blaring horns, hawkers’ chants, and the hum of keke engines enveloped him as he navigated his way through the bustling streets toward home.

For Ayo, Lagos was an intoxicating mix of love and chaos. He missed the teasing laughter of his younger cousins, the aroma of his mother’s spicy egusi soup, and the grounding presence of his father, Baba Ayo, who always had wise words to share. Little did he know that this holiday would shatter the very foundation of his world.

The Setup

It all began on a seemingly ordinary afternoon. Ayo had been running errands for his mother, Alhaja Rofiat, in Ikorodu’s sprawling market. Known for his honesty, he was loved by many in the community. As he carried his groceries past the keke park, a group of local boys called out to him.

“Ayo! Na you we dey hail o!” one of them said with a wide grin. (Ayo! We’re hailing you!)

“Una no get work!” Ayo teased back, laughing. (You don’t have work!)

From a distance, a shadowy figure watched. It was Adobayi, a senior officer in the Lagos State Police Command. He was a man who thrived on deceit, running a clandestine drug empire that trafficked Colos and methamphetamine across the city. Recently, law enforcement had been closing in on his operations, and he needed a scapegoat—someone clean, with no criminal record, to mislead the investigation.

Ayo, with his reputation for integrity, was the perfect fall guy.

The Arrest

That evening, as Ayo walked home, a police van screeched to a halt beside him. Before he could react, officers jumped out and grabbed him.

“Wetin I do?!” Ayo shouted, struggling against their iron grip. (What did I do?!)

“You dey move Colos for park, abi? We catch you red-handed!” an officer barked. (You’ve been moving drugs at the park, haven’t you? We caught you red-handed!)

“I swear, I no do anything!” Ayo protested, his voice cracking. (I swear, I didn’t do anything!)

Adobayi emerged from the shadows, holding a small bag filled with powdered drugs.

“See wetin we find for your pocket,” Adobayi said with a sinister smirk. (See what we found in your pocket.)

Ayo’s protests were drowned out by the officers’ shouts as they shoved him into the van.

Corruption Runs Deep

Adobayi’s drug operation was well-oiled, relying on a network of accomplices, including Sgt. Okoro, a brutal enforcer, and Officer Nnamdi, who acted as the bagman, collecting bribes and distributing payoffs. At the top of the chain sat Judge Enojie, a corrupt magistrate whose greed was matched only by his ruthlessness.

In a dimly lit bar in Ikeja, Adobayi met with Enojie to discuss Ayo’s case.

“This boy go take the fall clean. He no get criminal record, so dem go believe am,” Adobayi said, sipping his beer. (This boy will take the fall cleanly. He has no criminal record, so they’ll believe it.)

“You sure say he no go get people wey go fight am?” Enojie asked, raising an eyebrow. (Are you sure he doesn’t have people who will fight for him?)

Adobayi chuckled. “Who go fight? Na poor family. Nobody go fit touch us.” (Who will fight? It’s a poor family. No one can touch us.)

With that, Enojie pocketed a thick envelope of cash and assured Adobayi of a swift conviction.

A Mother’s Desperation

When Alhaja Rofiat heard of Ayo’s arrest, her world crumbled. She rushed to the police station, pleading for her son’s release.

“My son is innocent! Please, let him go!” she cried, clutching at Sgt. Okoro’s uniform.

“Madam, if you no fit bring 500k, make you dey go,” Okoro sneered. (Madam, if you can’t bring 500,000 naira, leave.)

With her husband bedridden from diabetes and the family barely scraping by, Rofiat had no way to raise the money. She visited friends, distant relatives, and even church members, begging for help. One fateful Tuesday, after a tearful prayer session, a woman approached her.

“Alhaja, there’s a lawyer named Iloye in your estate. He’s a good man. Maybe he can help.”

Life in Prison

Ayo’s first night in prison was a descent into hell. As a newcomer, he was brutally beaten by older inmates.

“Welcome to hellfire,” sneered an inmate nicknamed Scar as he landed a punch on Ayo’s ribs.

The prison was overcrowded, with 50 men crammed into a cell meant for 20. The stench of sweat, urine, and despair filled the air. Food was a luxury, and guards routinely extorted prisoners for basic amenities.

Despite the harsh conditions, Ayo found an ally in Tunde, a fellow inmate framed for armed robbery.

“Guy, just dey strong. This place go test your spirit,” Tunde told him one night. (Man, stay strong. This place will test your spirit.)

A Father’s Last Breath

While Ayo languished in prison, Baba Ayo’s health deteriorated. Alhaja Rofiat sold the family’s only car and even considered selling their home to cover his medical bills. Despite her efforts, Baba Ayo passed away one rainy afternoon.

In the hospital, the doctor approached Rofiat gently.

“I’m sorry, Alhaja. We did everything we could.”

Her wails echoed through the sterile hallways. When Ayo received the news, he wept silently in his cell, grief and guilt consuming him.

The Turning Point

With the help of Iloye and Inspector Sunday Igwe, a principled officer, cracks began to appear in Adobayi’s scheme. Igwe uncovered surveillance footage showing Adobayi planting drugs on Ayo. Bank records linked Judge Enojie to suspicious transactions from Adobayi’s account.

In a tense courtroom showdown, Iloye presented the evidence, and a remorseful Sgt. Okoro took the stand.

“Na true. Na Adobayi plan everything,” Okoro confessed, his voice shaking. (It’s true. Adobayi planned everything.)

The courtroom erupted. Judge Enojie and Adobayi were arrested, and Ayo was acquitted.

A New Dawn

Ayo’s release was bittersweet. He had lost his father and seen his family torn apart. However, hope lingered. His sister Bridget, now married to a wealthy contractor in Abuja, welcomed their mother into her home. Ayo received a scholarship to study in London, a testament to his resilience.

As he hugged his mother goodbye at the airport, she whispered, “Your father would be proud of you.”

With tears in his eyes, Ayo boarded the plane, vowing to fight for justice and ensure no one else endured the pain he had suffered.