Dead at First Sight

81 Wednesday 10 October

Kofi Okonjo had never been in prison before and he wasn’t much liking the experience so far. He’d travelled in a van from Brighton magistrates’ court with two other men who had been remanded, one an Eastern European and the other an Asian. None of them had spoken.

On arrival at Lewes Prison he’d been photographed again, face-on and side profiles, then stripped naked and a prison doctor had been called in to supervise an officer in blue gloves probing, roughly, inside his anus. It brought back painful flashbacks of being raped, repeatedly, at the age of ten, by male soldiers of the Revolutionary United Front in Sierra Leone.

His solicitor had told him he was entitled to wear his own clothes, rather than prison issue, as he had not been convicted of any offence. But when he’d requested them back, he’d been told that all the items of clothing he had been wearing when he had been arrested were being retained as possible evidence. He was handed an ill-fitting grey tracksuit that, although freshly laundered, had clearly been worn many times before, together with a pair of trainers, and told to get dressed.

His cash, along with his beloved Breitling watch, had been taken from him and he’d signed a receipt for them. He was informed by a prison officer that his cash would be transferred into an account that would be set up for him, and any money he earned from wages doing jobs in the prison or any that was sent to him from family or friends would also go into this account. He would be allowed to spend a certain level a week depending on his earned privileges, and would receive the balance back, along with his watch, when he was released.

He was feeling humiliated. Burning with anger and resentment. Tunde should have agreed that they killed the gay guy, like they had killed the two women who had been threatening to expose them. Then they would have been fine. Instead of in this hole. At this moment he would happily have shopped his friend, given those cops his name, but he hadn’t because he needed him to be free. Tunde would get him out, somehow, he always did. They’d always looked after each other. They were like brothers. But all the good life was making Tunde soft.

Twenty-one years ago the soldiers had come into his village. They’d raped his mother and sister in front of him. Then they shot his father and his younger brothers in the head. When they’d finished they told him either he could join their revolutionary army or be shot, too.

He’d met Tunde in the training camp a few days later. Both of them had been repeatedly abused by soldiers, and they were told that would stop if they proved their bravery. They learned how to shoot AK-47s and how to use machetes to behead enemies or mutilate and disable them by hacking off their arms. When the war ended, it was Tunde, who had close relatives who had fled as refugees to Ghana, who suggested they go there too, to safety.

It was Tunde’s uncle who got him into school in Accra, and then, a few years later when they were both in their late teens, Tunde was told by a nineteen-year-old cousin, who drove a brand new Range Rover Sport, about Sakawa. Kofi could not believe it, but he saw for his own eyes it was true. Between them they could make vast riches, riches beyond their wildest ever dreams.

They enrolled in a Sakawa training school in the city of Tema. Kofi Okonjo had spent most of his schooldays before then bored by lessons. But now he trawled through images on his phone of the things that really excited him. Fancy watches and fast cars were at the top of his list. What he learned at Sakawa school, along with Tunde, enabled him to have all those things.

In the garage of the house Okonjo rented in Reutlingen, where he lived with his girlfriend, Julia, were parked his Porsche GT3 and his Lamborghini. He was sweet on Julia. Sweet like he’d never been on any woman before. The pretty, undemanding German girl with her fringe of brown hair and her big eyes. They’d met in a subterranean bar in Munich when he and Tunde had gone to see an unknown band playing, and she was now living with him. She was in the house alone with her Burmese cat, Minka, waiting for him to come back home. He texted her whenever he could, even though Tunde would have been mad if he found out — he wasn’t supposed to have any communications that could risk them being traced. But he missed her. Although not as much as he was missing his cars and his watch, of course.

He had to see her, soon. He hadn’t even got a message to her yet that he was in prison. Screw Tunde’s concerns, he would have to do that.

Another prison officer, an unsmiling woman, came into the room holding a large bundle wrapped in cellophane, which she handed to him. ‘Mr Okonjo, this is your bed pack and toiletries, which you will find inside. A safety razor, shampoo and soap.’

‘What about cigarettes?’ he asked, sullenly. ‘Someone took them from me. I need cigarettes.’

‘English prisons are smoke free, except in open prison at present. They’re not available to buy.’

‘I need cigarettes.’

‘You’ll be having your medical screening shortly. If you need patches, the medical officer will help access them for you and will also give you support to help you stop smoking.’

‘Why can’t I just smoke?’

‘Because you are in prison. There are a lot of things you can’t do in prison,’ she said tartly.

She escorted him into a small room where another, more friendly officer sat behind a desk. The woman who had brought him in stood behind him. For the next twenty minutes the officer at the desk patiently asked him a series of questions.

He remembered Tunde’s warning some while ago. Any question might be a trap. So he did not respond to any of them.

‘Mr Okonjo,’ the officer said, without losing his patience or friendliness, ‘I’d just like to explain to you what will happen now that you are here in Lewes Prison. This is the First Night Centre, where all our new residents normally spend their first three days, to get used to the environment. You will then be moved to the remand wing, and one of our long-term residents will be allocated to you to show you the ropes. Do you have any questions?’

‘How long I got to be here?’

‘Until your trial, unless you are transferred to another prison, for any reason, before then. I’m sure you’ll settle in fine.’ He smiled.

Ogwang did not smile back.

Next he was interviewed by a nurse, who went through a checklist of medical conditions, asked him if he had any health problems, allergies, if he was on any medication, as well as asking him if he had ever, at any time of his life, contemplated committing suicide. Again, he refused to answer. The only time he spoke was to request nicotine patches. The nurse gave him some and told him she would put in a request for more to the doctor.

When his medical screening was over, the unsmiling woman officer escorted him to his cell for the night. It consisted of two bunk beds, and he had to share the cell with the Asian guy who had been in the van with him on the journey from the court. He was lounging on the top bed, watching football on the television. There was a plastic curtain between the bunks and a toilet and washbasin.

‘Nice to see you again,’ he said, politely.

‘Yeah? I’ll decide that,’ the Asian guy replied. Then he added, ‘You a Tottenham fan?’

Ogwang shrugged, then brightened a little — football was his big interest. ‘Actually, Manchester United, they’s my team.’

‘Cunt,’ his cellmate said.