‘low’ ENFORCEMENT AGENT
A true story
of my encounter
with police.
By
Abubakar
Sulaiman Muhd
How would you imagine I would appear had I spent a
night on police custody in a cell that smells bad odour of rotting man’s pee
and faeces with an empty night, nothing in the stomach with the unwholesome
splatter of police torture, intimidation, persecution and harassment on a
trivial disobedience to the police personal command that could be settled
without a need to move an inch towards police station. But is it breaking the
law of the land quarrelling with the security personnel? This was not my worry. For what if the station
was the next target on BH’s hit list and I happened to spend a night there?
A triviality
might cause my death. A trivial law breaking that needed no cause of rising
hackles compared to the perpetrations committed by police officers and other
officials at the top echelon of government departments at all levels and organs
of government. I mean federal, state and local government and executive,
legislature and judiciary and all the apparatus serving in these agencies.
Military, polithivicians, and civil servants; skilled and unskilled.
Come on with me for a tour to the landscape of
memory and regale you with a fascinating and a little bit disgusting story of
my encounter with a ‘low’ enforcement agent. A police man.
29thth December, 2012 happened to be a Saturday
morning and since the inception of Kwankwaso’s administration every last
Saturday of the months is declared public sanitation day from 6:00am – 10:00am.
And every same time of this day, the city holds its breath. Shops close, roads
dry and everything falls to silence. No more hubbub or commotion of business
activities as the city used to be in otherwise days until after the temporary sanitation
curfew is over. The moment the sanitation curfew finishes, the scamper begins.
And the streets take the commotion, with many people struggling to convey to
their various destination. Students, businessmen, hawkers, petty traders,
public bus drivers shuttling in around the city and other labourers furrowing
and scattering fro and to all direction. They troop from all direction that one
can conclude that they are forced to remain at home unwillingly by the law
enforcement agents even if they would not carry out the sanitation exercise in
their environment on which they are obliged to. The monster is known to stalk
the streets and survey those who are blessed with bone ears (kunnan kashi),
right? Or if you like put tough ears - deaf to the law. And monster on one
hand, for this matter is not stalking to secure full obedience of the law but
to find law defiants so that they would get chunk out of them.
I took bath around the hour that I considered appropriate
and enough to take us to our college without being too late after the curfew
hours ended. I packed my bag with books and other school paraphernalia and
headed towards Isma’il’s compound where we usually converge with another friend
called Sani before we normally go to school on Isma’il’s new vehicle bought for
this purpose which the two of us share
the use with him.
Behind school of physiotherapy, a branch of BUK medicine
faculty is
the cluster where I live. We got on the vehicle and nosed the road of Kofar Dawanau Road
after we drove out of the corner street of the houses that joins the Kofar
Dawanau road from our locale. As the pattern of tiny streets that join the
bigger roads throughout the city formation and the bigger ones leading to the
major roads. It is only when you go to the core centre of the ancient city of
Kano then you will see rat-like passages serving as streets for
human use.
We drove upward the road to join Aminu
Kano Way. A road that starts from Mumbayya House and ends at Kofar
Kadan Kaya. Aminu Kano is a highly reverential political figure. A role model
of young politicians of the society. A man of principle and of true democracy
and of social justice and equality. A terror of anarchy and inequity to the
masses. Truelly champion of the masses. A man whom many of these days corrupt
politicians ascribe their political ideology to. Which I believe is wrong because if he were
to come back he would arraign them for tarnishing his political image. Mumbayya
House is the historical relic of Mallam Aminu Kano’s compound where he lived
during his life time and the road derived its name from this lane. In his memoriam.
We
drove a one-way traffic till we reached to a junction around Madugu House along
the way where we crossed to another part of the dual passage – leaving GGSS
Bulukiya behind and arriving at the Mumbayya House. The road seemed to be more
congested there because of the vehicles increase that ran from Kofar Ruwa Road. We
turned two corners, that of Jigilawa Motors and the other of Musa Iliyasu House
and made our way towards Kofar Mazugal. You know Kano is a city surrounded with gates built
since around 13th century during the reign of King Muhammadu Rumfa.
The city is surrounded with moat and fortified thick earthen wall resistant to
enemy attack. The state traditional apparatus were in charge of any movement
through the gate of their respective domain under the charge of Sarkin Kofa and
were to forestall enemy invasion. The Sarkin Kofas were appointed by the emir
and accountable to him. Each gate got it’s christen from an important event
that happened at that same place. For example Kofar Dawanau was named when
people of Dawanau town were using the way to pass to bring their farm product
of groundnuts through the city to sell to the native groundnut agents at Filin
Dalar Gyada now Filin Holo; who later sold it to the European merchants. The
history of the city would not complete without mentioning the twin mountains of
Dala and Gwauran Dutse (the former a wife to the latter according to the
folklore) whose historical existence is full of different lore versions. The
city is really having a stunning spectacular view that every tourist will like
to witness.
My bag hung loosely round my shoulder and unnoticed
to me, the road grew more and more congested with vehicles speeding at a great pace to reach their destinations
without being too late. It was Saturday, and for the city with the majority of
its populace traders; Saturday means important. Because it is on this day
traders from neighbouring states and boarders beyond come to buy wares in the
major markets. Kantin Kwari market is
the largest textile materials place throughout Africa, Singer market the
largest place for foodstuff provision also all over Africa,
Kofar Wambai market, Kurmi market the historical one and Sabon Gari market the
all-encompassing one that makes the conglomeration of all.
Another vehicle to our side
that we were brushing shoulder with came abreast of us and in trying to pass it
by, the sling of my bag caught into the front brake handlebar of the vehicle. I
tried to slip it out but failed. When I finally learnt that the power of the
velocity at which we were running was so high and uncontrollable and our power began
bullying the other vehicle through the bag sling connection, I quickly shrugged
my left shoulder sideways in recline to let go of the bag off me so that to
right our vehicle; to steady up from the violent zigzagging and so to the other
vehicle. But before I knew it, I heard my bag land on the tarred road and the
other vehicle also fell. The front of the felling Jincheng crashed and appeared
badly damaged. The driver got a ball of bruising spot on the side of the cheek
he fell on. The other person he was carrying grazed his knees despite the
strong jacketed jeans he wore.
Hold your breath! Thank God
for there was some distance between, before another following vehicle could ran
over the felling men and machine. And thank God it wasn’t us felling because
more damages would incur for our vehicle was that of Roba-Roba type (a term
used by Kanonians referring to any vehicle with plastic cover widely used by
Kanonian youth to attract young ladies). Our vehicle ran ahead to some feets
before it reached to a complete halt. We stopped and dismounted off the
vehicle. I was the first to reach the spot. I retrieved my bag, my modem and my
flash card that spurted out from the open side pocket of my bag. Deep beneath
me I was uncertain about the state of my PC. For it was likely to get badly
wounded by the forces reaction it so severely underwent. You know I ’m always
with a PC and modem so as to keep in touch with the modern world of information
age in order to remain ever updated.
Hap was I for this matter.
Kanonians are men of belief in destiny even in the circumstance where destiny
is irrelevant. Impertinent. They attribute everything to God even when God has
no hand in the matter. Despite the reckless speed at which we were going,
though it wasn’t my sole responsibility nor our driver’s for everybody was mad;
speeding at a high velocity like electric light. By lobbying and persuasive
tongs the injured were pacified and forgave me and went.
To cut story short let
arrive at France Road
incidence. After we left a checkpoint at Sa’adu Zungur House (Triumph
Publishing Company, state owned media) and headed down France Road; there is a blockade in the
exact vicinity of Sabon Gari Police Division
adjacent to the Abubakar Rimi Market’s shops. It was Saturday as I said
earlier on, and people were held at home for some good hours and they were
eager to make up with the missing affairs; everybody was in haste and Sabon
Gari housing quarters was vomiting market women threading their way to attend
their shops. A woman with her children was crossing the road to the market
side, and then a police made a sign to us that we should make a slow-down move
to let the sheperdening woman pass. Actually we didn’t halt to a complete stop
as the police commanded but we so much lowered our speed to a snailing, equal
to a pedestrian’s pace. On reaching abreast of the policeman, he jumped to us
and made to the key. But Isma’il, the driver barricaded his way and quickly
ejected it out and shove it some where in his body safer. Imagine how could
such a crawling pace hurt someone? Had it been we were going at a high speed,
able to injure someone; I didn’t think the policeman would have got chance to
come near us and attempted to take the key without him
getting hurt or pushing him aside. Please imagine that.
It was a long saga, please
keep a Job of patience to reach to the last page.
“Why don’t you stop while you are seeing me signaling you
to stop?” The policeman inquired.
“No Yallabai, if you stop us to avoid hitting her, so we
did not.” I replied. To my philosophy the reason behind stopping us was to
avoid hitting the woman and since we hit her not I thought everything was ok.
“You squeeze three of you on a vehicle.” The policeman
shifted to another charge.
“Haba Yallabai, your first charge is not on this basis,” I
quickly protested, “you only want to delay us and waste our time.”
“Yallabai forgive us we are students.” Sani chipped in.
“Officer since we did not hit her, only that we didn’t stop
to a complete halt please allow us go.” Isma’il observed.
“Ok, you don’t have plate number, right?” The policeman
asked rhetorically.
“Yallabai it is because the motorcycle is new and the plate
is on the process.” Isma’il replied courteously
“Yallabai it is only if you want to delay us or cheat us
that is why you arrest us. For if not, allow us go.” I started in half frustrated
tone from the reminiscence anger of the previous accident. All this was
happening on the road, to the middle side of a little cemented up-inch block
that separates the dual passage from each other. The atmosphere began to get
hot as a verbal skirmish was underway as I sensed that the police man was in no
tending to let us go. Seeing that, the other policeman in black uniform who
continued controlling the traffic told us to cross to the other part of the
road for settlement so that we would not block the way for the other
vehiclists. This gesture could be translated to mean ‘go to the other side and
settle the issue with the little money you have,’ backhander. ‘Corruption.’ The
tone of the black uniformed officer inclined to side with his colleague by accusing
us of standing at the middle of the road. A charge I had never expected. Could
that mean another offence? Who could tell? While crossing the road the officer
in violet shirt and black trousers made the same sign to oncoming vehicles that
they should slow down; but for us to mean we should stop to a halt, for us to
cross the road.
“You see Yallabai, if you are fair and just; you will have
to arrest these men.” I pointed particularly to a man in an oncoming car, since
he did not stop completely to the command of the officer as the same case with
ours. “Kawai dai mu dan ka raina mana hankali, shi yasa ka kamamu?”
“Officer this duty you are doing on us is not yours, it is
VIO’s.” Isma’il observed
“So now you are correcting us, ko?” The policeman said in
menace. You know how police are in Nigeria, they are law in themselves
not law enforcement agents as prescribed by the constitution. That’s law in our
country. Period.
I picked up my phone
pretending as if I was dialing someone’s number to put fear in the mind of the
mercenary officer. For it is not uncommon to see somebody when arrested calling
someone he knows who is influential to come and save his neck. But actually I
was just simulating not because I have nobody to call but just to spare them
peace. A mounting of anger accrued in me and I began to seethe with furious
frustration.
“You just want to cheat us, shame on you. You find nobody
to cheat other than the poor masses and students.” I barked furiously.
“Did I demand something from you?” the policeman
challenged.
“No, but it is your intention.” I insisted because I could
read his intention vividly by mere looking at his face.
“Yallabai we are students.” Sani plead with him.
“Ni za ka gayawa ku dalibaine, tun kafin ka san zaka fara
karatu nakeyi. Allah yasa kai ne Mango Park me hakoran ABCD.” Inside me I
doubted his words. For how could so much learned person like him, as he
claimed; would remain in the street under the searing tropical sun? But it
quickly dawned on me. Such people are those who have completed their schooling
not beyond secondary level. They are those dullards whom their parents find it
waste of resources continuing sponsoring their study. Or those who prefer
certificate to knowledge and normally ending up with certificate without certification.
Then I remembered the opinion of my lecturer who told us when he read in a
paper that about 8000 graduates seeking for driving job in Dangote Cement
Company. He said ‘if you see them kill them. They are liars. They are those
students with certificate without certification.’ And that policeman, no doubt;
is one of them.
“Let him do whatever he wants. We are not afraid of your
punishment. The last of it is taking us to the station and then to the court;
so we like it, take us we have no problem.” I didn’t know where I summoned
courage to wear bold face and poured these bitter words on the officer.
“Wallahi Yallabai we are not afraid of anything.” My downpour vile continued to
land and raze inside the heart of the disheartening officer. “The worst of it
you can do is killing us, so do it. But you should know that you kill us and you
are also going to die one day. Or if you think you will take us to your
kangaroo courts before impartial and unjust judges for show trial, we can
appeal to the high authority ahead and even if the court of appeal proved to be
kangaroo too; we have another one to appeal. It is international court and
Wallahi kuma mutum sai an tafi dashi kuma sai an bi mana hakkinmu. You must be
tried there justly and if you cheat us you will get your comeuppance. It is not
Nigeria.
And if we fail there we will appeal to God for His assistance.” Amid this
verbal eruption people had crowded the scene. By this time I already injected a
feeling of remorse, abatements and deflation in the mind of boiling officer. He
felt guilty of his misdoing and sorry for himself. “You see Yallabai, you are
the ones that we put our trust in and if you behave this way,” I shrugged my
hands in front nonchalantly, “then how do we do?” This time I have taken self-abasement
and this made the officer to look more foolish than before. Traders around the
police division who were familiar to the policeman started to plead mercy on
our behalf but the policeman turned down the request flatly though he subdued
his anger and from all indication was ambivalent to allow us go and it might be
from the public disgrace he received that’s why he wanted to get rid of us
before more people come and eye -witness the scene. But before my frustrated
state reached to a phlegmatic juncture, the other policeman crossed the road towards
us. He demanded for the key and Isma’il refused him it. Before you know it the
policeman in black uniform has reached his hand out on Isma’il’s face and
landed a painful smack. The print of his fingers remained on his face for some
while before disappearing. The policeman took the motorcycle and pushed it
toward a wooden bench where a group of officers were basking in morning sun to
warm up their body.
“Yallabai waddanan yaran basu da kunya, sai an tafi da su,
these young men are stubborn they should be taken to the station.” He talked to
one of the officers sitting on the bench and the officer did not utter a word.
He just looked up to us with menace. The policeman in black picked his phone
and dialed a number.
“Ibrahim wasu yarane gasu nan basu da mutunci, zansa a kawo
su yanzu. Ibrahim I have three bad young men I will send them to you now.” We
all felt diffident and deflated and all our strength deserted away for we knew
the police torture at least by story we heard from those who have been to cell about
how they got tortured and abused even before the sleuthing proved them guilty.
Such maltreatment and human right abuse are really inhuman and brutal even when
sighting them in your mind’s eyes without coming in physical contact with them.
The policeman in violet shirt was to push the motorcycle to the station on the
instruction of the one in black. Out of their ignomable unconsciousness, we
have studied their names and number by heart (names and number excluded here
for security reason) for writing it openly would mean risky venture. We were
nearly to the police station, a trader in a flowing gown babbariga pleaded with the policeman to let us go but all in vain.
“Wallahi sai sunje. They must go.” Came the sworn reply.
By the time we reached to
some feets away from the extempore roof under whose shade another three or four
police officers were sitting. We stopped at a distance while the pushing
policeman in violet was already ahead of us talking to the officers. From that
distance I heard him tell them what transpired between us. A false account,
value loaded and fabricated bullshitting.
“Zaginmu suke yi, wanacan mai fararen kayan wai har cewa
yake gwamnatinma azzaluma ce. They are insulting us, this guy in white even
says the government is bad.” He pointed at me. Hearing this fabricated and
distorted account, I quickly briefed the two pals and made a discreet aside.
“We should not enter the station for you know how police
are. They will distort the truth and will not accept our version even when we
are fortunate enough to be allowed to speak. They will just raid us with rain
of marauding savages, chastisement and pummel.” This quickly reminded me a story
of a policeman and a civilian. The man was lying on his mattress in front of
his compound for ventilation. During hot season the atmosphere in the core city
is like a furnace, terribly hot. People come out side for air because houses
make cluster and therefore stifling the ventilation. On that night police
operation was to take place in that same area. The police raided a group of
ganja smokers and arrested some and chased away those who escaped. A policeman
came to the place where the man was lying on his mattress and woke him up –
saying that he arrested him and should be taken to the station. Surprise
engulfed the man. On what offence would he be arrested? Did he look like an
offender? No just police framing. “Just few questions, when you answer them you
will be released.” The police would say. The man did not resist, he said he
would go but must be allowed to take his mattress with him. To him, when they arrived
at the station the mattress would be a concrete proof of his innocence. But on
arriving there at the station, hmm you know how police are. Wicked. The DPO
asked of the man with mattress and the officer that arrested him said “Oga
wannan barawon katifane ne. He is a mattress thief.” Came the reply. And the
man was not asked to tell his version. The policemen just started at him. So with
this and other experiences, entering to the station, to me, would mean we are good
fools of the century. We stopped there until we assured that the policeman
entered the station. Because if we left without seeing him enter, he might
dodge and come out and sell it away. For who knew if he was a quack officer.
For it happens on many occasions a fake officer arresting vehicles and the
owners went away to their business only to come back and found the police
disappeared. Then whom were we going to blame? He or us? We went through the market gate
behind the station where I bought a phone card and recharged my phone and rang
a neighbor’s number, the philanthropist Alh. Aminu Dan Gaye to tell him our
state of being. He assured me not worry; the motorcycle would be brought to our
home. Then on, we proceeded to our college. Saturday night passed without the
vehicle back at home.
Sunday Morning
Sunday morning was a real
terrible. The three of us were all disturbed emotionally. No issue about the
motorcycle. Early in the morning I re-phoned Alh. Aminu as a reminder and he
reassured me to calm down. Still I was feeling jittery. The news spread to
everywhere in my locality like wild fire. Everybody I met asked me about it. I
didn’t feel comfortable with that, really. Around 4:00pm, as Alh. Aminu
promised me that he would come back and discuss the case mouth to mouth with me.
I waited patiently until the time came and passed and came not he. I was
struggling to find ease. But no longer at ease. Then came a news that in the
afternoon we were to play soccer match with other boys at near Kofar Ruwa.
Still no longer at ease because something has already preoccupied my heart.
In the afternoon, I dressed
up in a blue jeans and a red shirt and put over my black hoody and went with
dual intention. If Alh. Aminu came right at that hour, I would follow him and
if he didn’t, and he didn’t; I would play the match. I told my fellow
colleagues where to find me when they got ready. I took my newly bought book Politics and Religion by Dr. Dukawa and
went to a shop at Kofar Dawanau, sat there and perused it. The shop is along
the way where the soccer match was to hold. Still with the mind of receiving call
from Aminu. After spending good 35 minutes my colleagues came to take me to the
field. The field was very terrible. A
passage between the rows of houses facing each other. It was very chaotic and
uncomfortable with the passers-by and vehiclists passing every now and then
while the game was going on. The football style lacks conventional formalities standard
set by FIFA. Foul is decided base on debate and consensus between the two
contenders for there is no referee. Bare-footed player of equal number of about
7 will be in both of the teams in contention. If a player kicks a ball out of
the field and it vaguely touches opponent player, argument erupts; each team
claiming that it is their due and the other will also counter claim till
consensus reached. This is a soccer style commonly practiced by the Kano youth. We call it ‘Yar
Mando (the enjoyable one). Luckily, the match took away some burden off me and
found myself smiling when I scored the first goal to our contenders. The match
ended 2-1 to our contenders. We defeated them though it was Pyrrhic victory.
But sadly, the match left me with a wound on my right little toe.
Nightfall came. I phoned
Alh; Aminu again. He didn’t pick the phone. I gave up any hope. Then after
post-dusk prayer my phone rang. It was him. I went to his place and he told me
that he was on a day trip to a village for a friend’s wedding ceremony. He told
me that when he would leave for work he would call his police neighbour to
refer the matter to him. I thanked him and left with ambivalent feeling of hope
and despair. The vehicle was not mine and I was the major cause of the arrest because
of my bitter tong. Truth is bitter, and I gave a pill to this policeman that he
found hard to swallow. I quickly went to Isma’il’s house and told him what Alh.
Aminu has told me. This calmed him down. He suggested that he would go to Alh.
Aminu by himself. In the mid of Sunday night Alh. Aminu called his neighbour
police and told him the case.
Monday Morning
In the Monday morning the
sun dazzled despite the misty fog. I heard a loud knock on my door and a shout
of my name ‘Abubakar.’ I was full of rays of hope. I quickly woke up from the
bed.
“Alh. Aminu told me your vehicle was arrested. Now we will
go to the station.” He said. “But I couldn’t go there because I’m in a great
hurry up to somewhere; I handle the case to’ (no mentioning name) ‘so that he
will go with you to the station,”
Recutting the Story Short
After Alh. Aminu’s neighbour
to whom the case was initially handed has referred the case to his colleague. The
third party met me and told me where to meet him. I selected some books out of my
collection I considered relevant with the legal matters and struggle including Mandela’s
A Long Walk To Freedom and Obama’s The Dreams from My Father, stuffed them
in my bag to show the police my level of literary commitment so that perhaps
they might have respect for knowledge to treat me with humane tendency and
mercy. I went to the rendezvous earlier and waited his
arrival. When he arrived we trekked to the Sabon Gari Police Division at France Road through Abubakar Rimi market.
At the Police Station
We arrive at the DCO office
after my accompanying officer has phoned the DCO at the gate to confirm his
presence. Inside the police station no need to ask the description of the
place. Dilapidation. Like all others you know it is the same with this one.
“Is this the man that his motorcycle was arrested?” The DCO
asked. How he know the case? Perhaps they talked on phone. “You just had a
narrow escape,” the DCO was saying after we entered his office, “do you know
dead body? You were nearly dead body. The era of quarrel with police has
passed. If a police shot you, nothing will happen; the era of investigation has
passed. You are just dead. Last week JTF operatives shot a boy along Gwarzo Road. He was stopped by their men and he moved
slightly with an inch and they shot him. Now even if you are a son of king
wallahi if police shot you this time around nothing will happen. Police are
cooperative in ensipirit de corps; they will never fish out who made the
shooting in case of investigation. So you better take care.” He said
emphatically. I sat there listening to the DCO’s caution while the accompanying
police told another version of event contrary from the one I knew. I did not
utter a word of correction despite the fouls that deserved be corrected. Though
I knew without his false version the motorcycle would have not be released. The
DCO shouted a name of an officer outside. A tall middle aged man appeared. He
saluted the DCO militarily before he ordered him in.
“Call any body from the MTD unit.” He snapped in a
commanding tone. After some few minutes the office came back and said. “Nobody
is around from the unit.”
“Go with this boy he would show his motorcycle, release
it.”
When we came out of the office I showed him the motorcycle
among the many many vehicles that have seen many moons akept and their owners
did not bother to come to collect them. It might be that they were afraid,
because the bail price would outrun the value of the vehicle if they were to be
sold in their ramshackle state. Meanwhile the tall policeman led me to a
counter room and showed me to an officer on duty and told him the DCO’s
instruction. The short officer on duty hesitated to execute the command,
wanting to ask further questions.
“The officer in the MTD unit that arrested the vehicle is
not around and the officer who took over that Saturday is also not around.” The
short officer explained.
“But the DCO said it. Do you want to go and ask him
yourself?” The tall officer rhetorically asked.
“Where is the key, is it with the officer that arrested
you?” The officer on the counter asked me.
“No.” I replied producing the key from my pocket.
The officer brought a
register to enter the record of the release. He asked me the name and the
colour of the motorcycle, I told him the name but with the colour I got
difficulty.
“Dark blue.”
I said finally.
“Is this colour
dark blue? Which school are you?” He asked.
“CAS.” I snapped because I was eager
to leave the station.
“Which courses
do you offer?”
“IJMB.” I
replied sharply.
“Department?” He
inquired.
“Art.” I snapped.
“Combination?” He
asked inquisitively.
“English
Literature, Government and IRS.” I replied.
“That is why you
will not know this colour. You are not science student. It is blue black. I’m
science student?” He said but I did not bother to ask him further question
about the school he finished. Another policeman came in. I could hear a faint
distant voice of captives from the inner cell complaining to an officer about
breakfast, that they would give him their money to get them something to eat outside.
Though by that time it was already 10:00am plus.
“Kai abokina ba zaka bada wani abu ba,
kayi alheri mana. Please give something.” The officer that recently came in
demanded.
“To ai ni Yallabai bani da ko za ne.
My pocket is behind zero digit.”
As the officer wrote the
statement of release I followed his pen to read what he was writing:
31st December, 2012 a blue black Super Winner motorcycle
arrested by MTD officer on Saturday 29th December, 2012 in
possession of Abubakar Sulaiman Muhd of Kofar Waika is released on the
instruction of the DCO.
I came out, dusted the
motorcycle and went straight ahead to the college. I quickly phoned Alh. Aminu
to tell him about the release followed by a flood of thanks.
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