It was a Friday 3rd February 2010.
That morning we woke up at 6:00am as usual expecting ‘Fall In’ commonly vulgarized in prison as ‘Pollen’ or ‘Lock up’. It did not materialize as expected. When it struck 7:00am and there was ‘Pollen’, I was itched to inquire from my immediate sleeping neighbors what the reason for the delay was. (Remember it is only after a successful lock up that prisoners are let out of the Wards.)
I learnt another lesson that morning. Every first Friday of a new month, Prison officials go into a routine Parade – a parade where prison warders/wardresses raised issues affecting them to the Officer- In- Charge.
So that morning, the wait for ‘Pollen’ extended to 8:00am when they finally showed up. Thereafter we proceeded for the usual Labour parade together with our cheerleader, a one legged wobbling old man of about 70 years who jokingly kept asking whether this Labour we attended every morning also had a head.
By this time I had successfully secured a ‘Party’ – a working station assignment but not before parting with Shs35,000 to the overall RP Labour, a semi god of sorts in Murchison Bay Prison.
One will wonder why I had to bribe in order to find work instead of just sleeping and whiling away time.
First and foremost Murchison Bay was the best Prison to spend a sentence at the time being a National Referral Hospital facility for the Prisons service. Inmates had access to the best medical services in the circumstances. The food was also comparatively better. And above all, hard labour was non-existent. So to ensure one avoided ‘Garri’, a Kiswahili adulteration of ‘boarding a truck’ on transfer to a hard labour prison facility especially farm prisons, one had to have a working station in Murchison Bay.
Secondly having a working station meant one spent more hours outside the ‘Wards’ – the actual cells. The full working hours would be spent at the work stations until the last Lock up usually at 4:00pm when all prisoners are expected inside the cells except for a few RPs.
Thirdly, there were chances of communicating with the outside world using the officials’ phones, sometimes others accessed alcohol and cigarettes.
So that morning I had graduated from the squatting Partyless inmates to the Printing Section where I now belonged. After the Labour Parade, my new RP Printing (a Police Officer serving 3 years) led me to the work station. There I was introduced to a Prison Warder who wondered aloud why I had not reported to work the previous day.
“Afande, our Ward was searched yesterday and by the time the search was over, the Labour parade had also ended,” I explained.
He appreciated my explanation and then asked for my Prison number, My Expected Date of Departure (EDD) and the assignment chit from the Labour office.
That also being a Friday meant we had to make purchases of supplies that would last till Monday, the next day for purchases. We then proceeded to administration block from where the official in charge purchases took orders and ticking off from your account held at the Property office.
My friend, a one Ochan had just received Shs50,000 through the Welfare Officer’s phone, so he had a lot of airtime to make calls.
We therefore entered the Welfare Office where we found 5 other inmates also waiting for permission to make calls.
Ochan (in prison for manslaughter) was the first to make the calls and he made quite a number of them before my turn came. I had earlier made a vow that my wife and fiancée would get to know about how I was faring in prison from myself.
The first call was to my wife, Agnes.
“Hullo” I said.
“Hullo,” she replied rather reluctantly.
“Mama Emmah, do you know who is calling?” I teased.
“No,” came back the answer.
“You don’t know your husband’s voice?” I asked.
“Oh! Daddy, …Daddy is that really you?”
“Yes it is me.”
I then told her how I was doing fine except that I was worrying for them; the children and her.
“We are all fine, and two rooms have been rented out. We are fine..” she started bubbling then the line was switched off.
Next, I called Sarah, my fiancée.
“Hello,” I greeted.
“Hullo,” she responded in a near whisper.
“Hello,” I repeated the greeting because her response was very low.
Then she replied a little more loudly.
“Guess who is speaking to you,” I teased her too.
“I do not know,” she replied.
“Am Taata Arthur,” I told her.
“Are you sure?” She asked in excitement.
“Yes it is me,”
“Is that you really?” She asked again not believing that a prisoner can have access to a phone.
“How is my son?”
“He is getting better,” she said before adding “measles almost took him.”
So on and on she went telling me her side of the story- how she misses me- how she prays for me blah blah and then inquired about my health.
I off course assured her I was doing great and in good hands, then the phone was clicked off.
