My experience in the hands of Ivorian Police – #DukeOfSomolu

This Ivorian gendarmes did not care that it was the Duke of Somolu stood in front of them. They respectfully asked me to bring out my manhood and pee into a small botte with a gun by me. Now which middle aged man, would be able to pee under such circumstances? You know the wahala we are bedevilled with at that age with regular power failure, inability to pee in a strong flow and all what not and then someone commands you to wee after a one hour flight pointing a rusty gun at you.

I stood there holding my you know what and thinking about life generally. It looked very clearly that I would die and the cause of death being my inability to wee at the behest of this ugly looking gendarme who did not understand a word of English. All he was interested in was to see the wonderful flow from my pee hole to give him his orgasmic release. The more he stared, the less likely this would come and the more agitated he became. I closed my eyes and aid a little prayer to my God seeking his cooperation to allow me escape this trauma.

It all began with a request from my friend who was opening his powerful outlet in Abidjan. The latest in a row of outlets located in very strategic and exotic locations in Africa. I gleefully accepted and parked my bags for the short trip. At the airport, my entourage which consisted of a photographer and a stylist were bided farewell by a small team sent in from my pet project, the Association of Single Women Above 40 with songs and traditional display. I broke kola giving our ancestors in Somolu their fair share of whiskey through libation that was poured on the floor of the departure hall with the stupid cleaners fighting me to clean the floor. I just ignored them and boarded.

The flight was brisk and smooth and we arrived the Houphet Biogny International Airport without any drama. We cleared immigration and there stood my first shocker. No delegation from the Ivorian chapter of the Association of Single Women Above 40; no cultural troupe, no Nigerian Ambassador and no Baale of Abidjan to receive me. Well, I just shrugged and continued with trying to buy a new sim card.

As I exited the Airport terminus, two very dark and divinely ugly gentlemen with brown teeth accosted me. You know, we that are aristocratic can be haughty and proud at times. I looked them up and down and noticed that they even had uniformed dirty toes as they spoke to us in French. I could not help but ignore them as I scanned the environment in search for birds. You know the chubby and light complexion verities with no stretch marks. This is becoming a rarity these days; they all come with stretch marks like that of the South African flag. This must have annoyed our gagoyles who shouted with smelly breath that we handover our passports.

I refused, claiming diplomatic immunity as the Duke of Somolu. My passport was a deeper shade of green unlike the rest of you and had the picture of my mentor and leader, Gen Matthew Okikioluwa Olusegun Obasanjo emblazoned side by side mine. I told them that the least officer that can talk to me in this Abidjan was the equivalent of their own Inspector General of Police otherwise, I will have to turn back and enter the plane before they go and buy fuel and that I did not come to this Abidjan to be insulted by smelly mouthed Ogbomosho people lookalike gendarmes with dirty toes. My people, the next thing I saw was my feet in the air. I had been carried shoulder high towards a detention centre.

In the hole, I had lost all my aristocracy. By this time I had started crying small and was speaking pidgin, Akwa ibom, Yoruba all in a combined gibberish that confused the agents more. I told them that I was not a real Duke o, that it was my maiguard that started calling me that name. I relinquished the title and told them that my real name was Iniubong, Akpadiahga Joseph Edgar from Afangha Nsit, in Nsit Ubiom Local Government of Akwa Ibom a second generation immigrant in Somolu. I begged for forgiveness and promised not to yab any politician again.

This was definitely Keyamo after me. I had yabbed him after his appointment abi it is Tinubu because I had yabbed him plenty. Or was it my neighbour who caught me staring at his wife’s big bum. But that was last year na? Would he still be holding the grudge? But I  had begged him and sent him a bottle of coke na. Abi, it was my Yoruba partner trying to steal our company by getting me arrested in Cote D’voire.

Kai, I started crying o. I begged to be released. I promised not to abuse people again. I promised not to be a  philanderer again. I promised to start going to church if they could only release me. Kai, this is how Evans the kidnapper is feeling o. My mind went to my dear mother who gave me my first taste of Afang; and to my son who just got an admission to an American University. My mind went to like 16 light in complexion ladies over 40 who would lose their mentor, who will be buying them cream and chinwe had warned me o. it is this Afang Summit that my political enemies want to use to finish me o.

As I stood holding my pecker, I sent a small prayer to the God of Israel, Jacob and Hezekiah. I denounced Freeze, I promised to pay tithe. I also promised not to ask that the GOs be probed. They can buy as many private jets as they want if only God could just make this pee come out.

My people, immediately I said amen, the thing came rushing out o. Kai, the pee came o.  I never believed I would be so happy to pee. I offered to taste it to make sure it was real pee and not coca cola coming out. The gendarme by this time, I had named him Oshiomole, was relieved as he too jumped up in praises to the god of their stupid land. He too was tired and had a date with his prostitute after saving for two weeks for the fee and this good looking idiot from Lagos was going to make him loose his turn and money.

The pee was tested, I passed and everything was ok. I could go. But you know me na, as they gave me my International passport, I wanted to know why I was singled out.

The explanation was simple. I was Nigerian, I had tattoos, I dressed like a drug lord and there was a war against human trafficking. In short, I looked like a cross between a drug king and a human trafficker. Me, o. this same me. I just looked at them and in a hurry, I stepped back and resumed my full titles as ‘The Duke of Somolu’, the right hand man to the gods of Apata and by the time I got to Mudi’s store I had added another title, the conqueror of the Ivorian gendarmes and holder of the key of life to the city of Abidjan. Please remind me never to go to there unprepared.



Joseph Edgar

Joseph Edgar is an Investment banker and Columnist with Thisday and DailyTimes newspapers. He is witty and is a hilarious writer.

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