The Terrors of Yesterday

More than half a decade ago, I was sitting with a few friends in an open space not far from a barber’s shop I knew quite well. From where we sat, the shop was clearly visible. Around us were older men and women going about their daily businesses while chatting casually among themselves.

All of a sudden, an uproar caught everyone’s attention. It was coming from the front of the barber’s shop.

The barber’s shop was a concrete structure built onto the side of an old “face me, I face you” bungalow. Over the years, it had served different purposes and had been occupied by several people, including a photographer. The first occupant had long since moved on, and the shop had taken on a new look.

A few years before that particular day, a local politician rented the shop and renovated it. What had once been a tiny room attached to the far right side of the bungalow now had a large extension built mostly from planks and corrugated iron sheets, with a canopy in front that served as a verandah.

The politician had died at least two years earlier, leaving the shop in the care of his family, who continued using it for the purpose he had intended. During the renovation, he had equipped the shop with barbing equipment, hoping to lease it to barbers who would, in return, pay him monthly. Sadly, he died before fully realising that vision.

Time moves quickly. Less than three years after his death, a third barber was already occupying the shop.

Suddenly, a couple of young men rushed out of the shop and fled. As they did, loud noises came from inside, followed by the sounds of someone struggling and objects being thrown around.

Less than two minutes later, someone was forcefully pushed outside.

To everyone’s shock, it was the barber.

He was being slapped, punched, and violently manhandled by two men.

From what I could make out, they were thugs, though not the kind most people would immediately recognise. Their shirts were neatly tucked in, and they carried themselves with an unusual level of composure. They were what I would call professional thugs. They were not particularly huge or muscular, but there was something terrifying about them. Their faces carried an expression of hardness, ruthlessness, and an unmistakable thirst for violence.

We watched in stunned silence.

One of the men effortlessly removed one of the two long fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling. I was amazed at how quickly he did it, taking no more than four seconds. I didn’t need a psychic to tell me what he intended to do with it, and I was certain everyone else watching knew as well.

Without hesitation, he smashed it over the barber’s head.

The fluorescent tube shattered instantly. Pieces of glass scattered across the floor and lodged in the barber’s hair. He cried out in agony as the blows continued. He was slapped repeatedly, shouted at, and beaten without mercy.

All the while, he kept pleading.

“It was all a mistake.”

Those were the words he repeated over and over again.

Neither of the two men paid the slightest attention to his pleas.

By then, I couldn’t take it anymore.

“They’re killing him,” I said. “And no one is doing anything. Are we really going to stand here and watch him die?”

By this time, people had gathered from every direction. The road was filled with onlookers.

Someone, I can no longer remember who, replied almost immediately.

“Maybe you should go over there yourself and plead on his behalf. Then you’ll see what they’ll do to you.”

I said nothing in return. The person was much older than I was.

I turned my attention back to the scene.

One of the thugs removed the second fluorescent light and repeated exactly what he had done with the first.

By now, both men appeared exhausted from beating him.

One of them grabbed the barber by his torn, blood soaked shirt and pulled him closer.

The barber weakly muttered,

“E jọ…”

Please.

One of the men responded with another slap, one that seemed even harder than the rest.

“Gb’enu ẹ dákẹ́!”

“Shut up!”

Moments later, they flagged down a commercial motorcycle, forced the barber to sit between them, and rode away.

Within minutes, the crowd that had gathered on every corner of the street slowly dispersed.

Those of us who remained could only reflect on what had just happened. Some concluded that the men were taking him away to kill him.

I wasn’t sure what they intended to do to him, but I was certain of one thing.

Whatever awaited him was not going to be pleasant.

We had all just stood there and watched a man beaten almost to death without anyone making a serious attempt to intervene.

We all knew him as the gentle and humble barber who quietly went about his work every day. I had never had my hair cut in his shop, but many of the people standing there had. He cut the hair of their sons and daughters, sometimes without charging them a kobo. Whenever there was no electricity from PHCN, he even allowed people to charge their phones free of charge.

He respected everyone.

The very least we could have done was plead for him.

Instead, we stood there and watched.

We watched him being beaten again and again. We watched blood flow from wounds all over his body. We watched fear silence an entire crowd.

Those older people could have helped.

I could have helped, even though I was only a teenager.

Perhaps our voices together might have made a difference.

But none of us moved.

We simply watched until they took him away.