Yes, it was exactly one week yesterday, on August 4th, 2024.
My friends and I had finished a
gathering we had somewhere in Awka, the capital city of Anambra State, which
though didn't start early enough on Saturday, August 3. We broke the day there,
as the gathering officially ended at about 2.am.
Awka had been revered as a
‘happening city’ where activities, especially nightlife, remain never go off, till
almost the following night.
Being an Awka-based practicing
journalist, I had also attended many other functions, meetings, and
media-related assignments in the past, especially during emergencies and
political periods, from where I safely returned home late in the night, even at
such odd hours as 2.am, 3.am and so on, without anybody or group interfering
with my movement.
These, and other heap of confidence so far built over more than ten years of my stay and practice of journalism in the city made me have less anxiety over my safe return to my residence that fateful Sunday night after our dismissal. Although I hear of and also write many news of the various crimes and security happenings in Awka on a daily basis, I never knew that the city had currently grown to be in its most unsecured status in the history of human existence.
So, as usual, after our
gathering, I saddled on my somewhat new ride and mounted the road, after my
friends and colleagues had taken their own direction. I was the only one among
us going to my side.
And, as is usually the case,
some streets were still on, especially the ever-busy Abakaliki Street (Club
Road), as at that 2:09 am when I took off and was cruising to my residence.
It, however, became unusual, as
I bent towards the direction of my destination, Off the Abakaliki Street before
the Queen Suit Hotel, as a yellow-coloured tricycle (Keke) double-crossed me,
with three ferocious and cantankerous men onboard.
That area is known for its
quietness, darkness, and loneliness, especially in the night, and early hours
of the day when the shop owners in the area are closed or yet to open for the
day.
“Come down from the bike,” one
of the boys said, brandishing a gun in his hand.
As I was trying to resist,
question, and understand what was happening, the other one among the two
persons who alighted from the tricycle drew closer and leveraged the tool of
hot slap to order me not to waste their time.
As the slap was still echoing
some bee sounds in my ear, the third person who remained inside the tricycle
joined his voice to warn me not to delay them further; even as few cars that
approached the area at that moment all reversed upon seeing the tricycle
standing at the center of the road, with armed men standing by.
With courage and instigation
that came from nowhere, as this was going on, I immediately geared up my
motorcycle in a bid to flee, while one of them immediately cocked his gun, and
the other pushed me down on motion, together with the motorcycle. And we
crashed.
As I was struggling to get up,
one of them grabbed up the motorcycle, saddled on it, and zoomed off in the
company of the Keke, in which the other two had already mounted; and they sped
off.
Immediately after the scene
cleared, some people rushed to assist me, as they comforted me and stopped a
tricycle for me, which I boarded in the company of some people, and was ridden
home, after I declined to go to the hospital that night.
As I got home, and even while
still inside the Keke, I started making calls, beginning with informing the
friends I had just finished staying with before the incident, and then calling
the Commissioner of Police, CP Nnaghe Obono Itam; the State Police Public
Relations Officer, SP Ikenga Tochukwu, and some other security personnel I
could reach on phone then, notifying them of what happened. I also requested
their assistance in facilitating the apprehension of the hoodlums and
recovering my stolen motorcycle — a ride that had been of great help to me in
meeting up with my various journalistic engagements, both timeously and
economically.
It was not until later in the
morning that I clearly saw and began to feel the real pains of the injuries I
sustained from the incident the time hoodlums pushed me down when I took the
highly regretted dangerous risk to escape.
While I could not comfortably sleep that night, the following morning, as early as 6:30 am, I was already dressed up for church. But the pains couldn't allow me. So, I had to begin finding transportation means to a hospital for urgent medical attention.
However, on second thought, I
decided to trek down the axis where I had been attacked the previous night,
though still making some phone calls and raising alarms.
Moments later, I was already at
the Abakaliki Street. Lo and behold, a motorcycle that looked exactly like mine
was dumped along the roadside.
“Could this not be my bike? Or,
are these criminals relaxing and drinking somewhere around here in celebration
of their successful ‘outing’ last night?” I reasoned aloud.
As I drew much closer, with
some premeditated phone numbers in mind to call immediately if something
strange was encountered, or if the men were drinking there; lo and behold, it
was my motorcycle; abandoned, without anyone in sight as the parker.
What could have happened that
led to the motorcycle being abandoned there?
The carburetor of my motorcycle
had developed a fault a few weeks ago, such that it usually overfloats most
times when I park it, especially when there is enough fuel in it. This made me
start locking up the fuel tap each time I park the bike and unlock it when I'm
about to go.
Now, this mechanical fault has
believably become my saving grace this time; little wonder why I had been
reluctant to go fix it since about two weeks ago it started.
Now, before taking off from the venue of our gathering that night, I forgot to unlock the fuel tap as I usually do; and so, the only fuel inside the carburetor was what sustained my ride to the point where the hoodlums robbed me. Unknown to me and them, the carburetor fuel was almost finished, even though there was enough fuel in the fuel tank.
So, men and brethren, it was
this remaining fuel in the carburetor that eventually finished up along the
road when the criminals were fleeing with the bike, and then, the motorcycle
locked up without any sign. Because they obviously could not begin to look for
the fault (being a stolen bike), for the fear of being apprehended in the
process; they disappointedly dumped and abandoned it there along the road,
which was where I saw it the following morning, to the glory of God. This
occurred just a few treks away from where the robbery occurred, implying that
they didn't even go far with the motorcycle before it locked up — a miracle I
believe they might suspect to be a security lock, as it usually happens without
giving signs.
Because I couldn't find the key
on the motorcycle, I rolled it to a place and parked it there; then went back
home, brought the spare key, and started it, after having switched on the fuel
tap and given enough time for the carburetor to absorb fuel. Men and brethren,
that was how I miraculously recovered and regained the ownership of my lost
motorcycle, all to the glory of God.
With that accomplished, the
next concern was seeking urgent medical attention, because the various degrees
of injuries I sustained on different parts of my body were still very acerbic,
which include part of my cheek, part of my eyes, and limbs. Consequently,
therefore, I mounted my motorcycle and hurried off to the hospital to take care
of myself. And since then, I have been on medication till date, with many
significant differences showing already on my body.
Many of the people I have encountered since the day of this incident have shown concern, empathy, and sympathy, but not without asking me what happened to me, especially given the degrees of injuries and scars on my body.
However, because of the blame I
perceived would trail me when I should tell the people the real story,
especially that aspect of the daring and highly regretted risk that I took by
staking my life to drag a motorcycle with armed hoodlums; and because of my
reluctance to be recounting the same long story to different people over and over;
I decided to be telling them that it was just an accident that I had, whenever
anyone asks me what happened after seeing the injuries all over my body. In
fact, I even started this the very night the incident happened.
So, as it stands today, many people,
including some of my biological relatives, still hold the belief that it was
just an accident that I had, as I told them, without knowing yet the real thing
that happened to me. Although it's also an accident, to some extent; only a few
persons I told know the true story. Meanwhile, some are not even aware that anything
happened to me at all.
Howbeit, now that I have almost
fully recovered; with appreciation to God, and with sincere apologies to those
I somewhat lied to about that; I have finally made up my mind to tell the world
the true story of what actually happened to me.
So, men and brethren, this is
my story!
Join me to thank God,
especially for sparing my life this time again, as many have died through this
kind of incident and still lost the dragged item.
It is indeed a testimony and a
great lesson to me.
The Lord's name be praised.
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