What’s behind the ‘Agbero’s’ Mask?

Mafoluko- Oshodi — Lasisi Banjoko, 21, appears to have spent his childhood awkwardly, as reflected by his many scars mostly straight lines around his upper arms from street fights. At age 16, he became an ‘Agbero‘, or area boy, in local slang.

Here in Lagos, a coastal city in West Africa of over 20 million inhabitants, which is said to be the economic nerve of West Africa and the fastest developing city in Africa, there are still thousands of teenagers eking out an existence on the busy streets of Lagos.

Lasisi Banjoko was only 11 when he left his village; Tetede – 30 miles from Lagos by himself; in search of a means of survival.

“My father married four women,” he said, speaking in Yoruba. “I have 20 brothers and sisters. My father was a civil servant. But when he retired, he did not receive his pension immediately. When I saw young people from my village coming back from Lagos with fancy cars and a lot of money . . . I wanted to be like them.”

When I got to Lagos, my first job was as a bus conductor. I would canvass for passengers for commercial bus drivers at motor parks. At the end of the day I earned some money to eat and survive on the streets. Two years after, I joined the company of money collectors. We position ourselves at bus stops, imposing ridiculous levies on bus drivers, tricycles and motorcycle riders. We imposed levies such as: ‘Owó weekend, Owó loading,’ ‘Owó olopa,’ ‘Owó task force,’ ‘Owó organizing,’ ‘Owó traffic,’ ‘Owó environmental;’ to mention but a few. We were fierce and feared. I loved it. We were often under the influence of alcohol and drugs; we were always brutal to commercial bus conductors, who hesitate to part with money we demand. I was the most diligent as I delivered over N80, 000 daily to our egbons (seniors). I went home with at least N10, 000 for myself.

My head was turned by the glamour of my egbons (seniors) who worked closely with politicians. I desperately wanted to grow in the ranks; I wanted to be a senior too. I began to supply my seniors with daily herm wraps for their pleasure to enable them buy into me. I did this for close to two years on my daily earnings. Soon after, they grew to like me so I was promoted into the political thug team.

The money started rolling in and I enjoyed the lifestyle. I suppose we were in a gang, but to me they were my hood peps; I loved them.

Guns were readily available as part of our day-to-day life. We were young and foolish, and a silly accident was bound to happen. One day, my friend was playing around with a gun, aiming it at me as a joke. He assumed it wasn’t loaded but there was still a bullet in the chamber and when he pulled the trigger, I got shot in the head. I was terrified, as was he. I was rushed to hospital and the doctors discovered that the bullet had travelled only a few millimetres inside my skull – they thought that because it was from a replica air rifle, it hadn’t made the impact a bullet from a real gun would have done. Amazingly, I was absolutely fine. After 24 hours I was discharged, with the bullet still in there – removing it may cause nerve damage, so it will probably be there for the rest of my life.

At the time, it didn’t really bother me. In my world I often came into contact with danger especially during elections and inter-party clashes so I’d learned not to let it wash over me. I felt fine and within days I was back on the streets. Instead of seeing my gunshot wound as a warning about my precarious lifestyle, I chose to carry on as usual. I felt that I was living the high life. My parents were devote Muslims and were very shocked when they discovered what I’d been up to, but I didn’t give it a second thought.

With hindsight, I realised that the future held only two options for me: death or jail. Unfortunately, I couldn’t decide my fate. Aged 21, I was the leader of the city’s most notorious ‘Agbero‘ gang. We were political enforcers – a free-wheeling gang providing security for our candidate at public meetings or intimidating their opponents. Occasionally we burnt houses and fought with opposing political parties’ ‘agberos’. Few months to the state election; we were given a task to take out our governorship candidate’s opponent at his family home in Lekki Peninsula.

We arrived at his apartment masked and dressed in black. We had settled the police in the area heavily. There we stood, for a second; vacuous men so deeply wounded who had replaced a need for love with a lust for money and acceptance. We called it “respect,” but that given in fear can never be such. Respect is given to the loved; a cowering deference is given to the ones who take by force.

So we are nothing but youngsters bleeding behind stoic masks. Yes truthfully we are not as strong as you think. Our weakness was masqueraded by our aggression; in the sense that it announces the fear of loss of control. I was really frightened by what awaited us. I remembered my grandpa’s favorite adage; “do not expect to be offered a chair when you bring a cutlass to your neighbour’s house.” Aggression is a fear-based response to an event. Nothing is weaker than operating from a base of fear. Monsters are weak.

I was raped, and I enjoyed it! Does that change his crime?

Yesterday was my first day in a company in Victoria Island. I felt uneasy, timid and shy around my new boss. It was extremely nerve racking, because I had distinct feeling that I’d been hired for my looks and slightly flirtatious nature. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have the qualification for the marketing position, but I’d found in the past that flirting a bit with a male boss could make the job much more enjoyable. Mr Adesola Albert- Adesanya, had been more than receptive to it, and by the time my interview was over and he offered me the position, I had the feeling that it wasn’t going to be a relationship of just professional exchanges.

When I walked in an hour early on my first day, I found out just how right I‘d been about that notion. I guess it makes it kind of strange that the very first memory I have of my first day was how easy it was for Mr Albert to get me undressed, compared to how long it had taken me to get ready. I was surprised he didn’t end up popping buttons off my blouse. Instead, he moved quickly and methodically as his tongue pushed past my lips and dipped into my mouth. He took no more time to get my pencil skirt off, unbuttoning and unzipping it before letting it pool at my feet as well. So there I was less than an hour and a half on the first day of my new job, and a my boss had me standing in nothing but my black lacy bra and my tiny little panties I’d specifically worn to eliminate a panty-line. His mouth kept up with the aggressive kisses; an act I found awkward and I thought I wasn’t enjoying. Under the circumstances, I was somehow incredibly turned on.

Suddenly I was in front of a growing bulge in his pants. He forcefully grabbed my hand and placed my right palm on it. I was taken aback. I was terrified. I immediately pushed away; it was bigger in flesh than it had hidden in the fabric. I began to protest. He pushed my head into it; holding my neck tightly. I gasped, my mouth opened. And with my mouth open, he pulled me forward and his cock slammed past my lips. Slammed isn’t an exaggeration either, because he wasn’t gentle with it at all. He simply shoved himself in, sliding all the way back to my throat, and I gagged violently. I struggled consistently then he pulled me back a little to allow me to catch a breath before he jammed himself back in again. It was far rougher than I was used to, and I don’t know if it is because it was my boss that I ended up enjoying the way that he was taking control, but as much as I never would’ve expected to like what was happening. I did.

Every time he pushed forward, I gagged, and then he’d pull back and push forward again. It was a never- ending cycle of him holding my head firmly, making me gag, releasing me, holding me again, and making me gag again. And I knew he enjoyed my gagging because I felt his dick pulse against my tongue every time I did. I think under ordinary circumstances, I would have felt horribly used and objectified. Hell, I had an advanced degree in communications and marketing, yet here I was on my knees like some kind of paid hooker who had to fuck and suck her way to the top.

By all rights, I should have been pissed off about it, but instead I moaned and I sucked as best as I could under his assault on my throat, moaning like a ten kobo whore and feeling just as horny. He pushed his dick in; inch by inch relentlessly until my nose began to run and my eye teary. He held my head up and then released me. I fell back, gasping for any bit of air I could get. He smiled, and for some reason, his smile –though a little malicious and scary turned me on incredibly.

Finally he turned me around and shoved his enormous dick into my asshole. I knocked his phone right off his desk, but he didn’t slow down. I knocked the pencil cup he had on his desk over, scattering pens and paperclips all over the floor, and that didn’t slow him down either. I screamed. The invasion of my tightest and tiniest asshole brought so much pain and discomfort that I cried out. Finally he pulled his dick out of my poor little abused asshole. He took a step back; as he reached for his shirt, I took the cue from him to redress myself. I scrabbled around the office, collecting my skirt and blouse from where they’d gotten kicked off to, throwing them back onto my body and trying to straighten them up presentably.

“So,” Mr Albert said finally as he smoothed his tie. He looked as if nothing had happened. His hair was still impeccably styled, his eyes calm, his clothing free from wrinkles and fuzz. I, on the other hand, felt completely ambivalent about what had just happened.

“I think you’re going to fit in here beautifully”

I lifted my eyes to his, and for the briefest of seconds, I saw a suggestive twinkle winking back at me. A small smile curled at the edge of my lips as I replied, “I agree, sir.”

The Dire story of a Child Bride

When I tell my story, most people think of me to be Halima or Fatima from the far north of Nigeria where child brides are most common but I am not. My name is Dedelolia Dinma-fiberesima – nee Egbema. I am from an impoverished fishing community in Ogbia by the delta of the Niger River; sitting directly on the Gulf of Guinea on the Atlantic Ocean in Nigeria.

I am the oldest of five children. I was just 7 years old when my mother died shortly after giving birth to my youngest brother Boma. Not long after, my father was killed in a communal clash.

Suddenly orphans, my four young siblings and I had to leave the place where we grew up, and move in with our grandmother in a village nearby. Our grandmother struggled to look after us. She sold vegetables from her small farm to sustain us. She was only able to provide a single meal for us and most times we went to bed hungry. Caring for us became unsustainable when grandma’s small farm got submerged in flood and her produce washed away. She felt she had no choice but to arrange a marriage for me.

I was 11 when I got married. My husband was 36 years old. He was a hardworking fisherman who traded with big city merchants. He took up the responsibility of taking care of my siblings and grandma. He paid my siblings school fees but he didn’t think I should go to school. He made me join his other workers to smoke and dry the tons of fish he brought home. Then he took some to the local market to sell and most of it he sold in the city. Selling was easy because he had ready off-takers. The money made was use for our well-being.

My husband was mostly at sea. Whenever he got back; he made me to perform my wifely duties. He was never gentle. As a child bride, I endured the terror and pain of an unwanted physical relationship. After some months, I discovered I had inflamed skin around my vagina and an abscess – a swollen clump of infected tissue that made me cry when it was time to pee. I was taken to a specialist hospital in another town. After some test, the doctor told me I had Vesico-vaginal Fistula disease and I was also 4 months pregnant.

I was traumatized by my latest discovery; terrified and alone. I was preparing to raise a child while I was a child myself, I didn’t know how I was going to manage. I had no idea about pregnancy or childbirth, all I knew was that I was far too young to be having a baby. The pain and uneasiness I felt between my thighs was a proof that everything was wrong; I could barely walk. My husband wasn’t around he wasn’t going to be back till the next week. He had travelled to the city. I was scheduled for an emergency catheter placement surgery that evening. It was so frightening.

The surgery was successful. I was still in bed when the news of my husband’s demise got to me. On his way back from the city, he was involved in a car accident. I was devastated. The news passed through me like a hurricane. I wasn’t sure of my fate anymore.

After the funeral, his brother and successor to his land and property, inherited me. I was more of a slave than a bride. He tortured me for his pleasures.

One day, I asked him if I could give my siblings a little money I made from my cassava sells. He didn’t let me finish my sentence. He pounced on me like an angry cat. He squeezed my shoulders and started screaming at me, “Any money you make is mine and no one else.” Then he slapped me and he shoved me to the ground not minding I was pregnant. I fell to my back and began to feel intense pain than anything I had ever imagined. Nothing could be more brutal, not whips or chains. My husband looked at me in total disgust and left me there. My screams and wails attracted neighbours who rallied round to help me.

Unknown to me I was in labour. Each contraction came with a pain that dominated my entire being. In those moments, for those seconds that stretched into infinity, there was nothing else I could see. I could only hear female voices telling me that it was time, time to push. With a guttural grunt I did so and stopped to catch my breath. I felt the baby crowning; the baby’s head was visible from my vaginal opening. Without any further effort the baby slid into the hands of one of the women. There was elation, it’s a girl, and in seconds she was there, nascent eyes opening. At this point, my life as a child was over. Though I was only 12 years, I was a mother, a widow and was in my second marriage. The sad realities of my life had made me grow into adulthood. I gained the consciousness that I was now responsible for another, and my ultimate success depended on the choices I made. My evolutionary decision to leave my village gave me mental freedom to hold unto the last string of hope. My mind was filled with vary of thoughts, all with branching questions and no correct answers. I braced myself as the eldest woman laid my newborn in my hands. Time stood still then. There was no memory of the past (not even of the pain i was in) no thoughts about the future. I stared at her in awe and she looked at me, her eyes wide open, I knew I had my world in my arms! Right then I made a promise to her of a better life.