Many trite expressions in Nigerian official settings are ironic. For the average Nigerian youth, a prime example is the phrase ‘bail is free’. A similar linguistic acrobatic is at play within the confines of the Ikoyi Prison. Boldly stated at the entrance of the registration is “Visit is Free”, but visiting without cash is akin to assuming the role of a chief clown in a wonderland. This observation became evident during my visit in December, when I encountered the officials begging and audaciously extorting the visiting families of inmates.

My experience as a visitor began at the gate, where I encountered a mild version of what awaited inside. Upon entering the unfenced premises, I encountered a yellow-painted security post with makeshift barricades of tyres and some uniformed personnel. One of them approached me and asked me what I wanted. Politely greeting him, I explained that I was there to visit a family friend. Immediately after he confirmed that I was a visitor, he asked me to “show him love” because December was a festive period. I was not startled because this same attitude is pervasive in many government establishments. Instead, I explained to him that I had no money but might reserve some for him after I saw who I was going to meet. He then allowed me to enter the premises, and I thanked him.

Because the man didn’t provide specific instructions on where to go, I assumed I could approach the prison gate directly. So, I headed straight for the gate of the premises. But just before reaching it, a casually dressed man intercepted me to inquire about my destination. Without hesitation, I informed him of my intention to visit someone. He probed further, asking if it was my first visit. After I answered him in affirmation, his beaming countenance betrayed a sense of satisfaction at encountering a first-time visitor. An opportunity, it seemed, for extortion.

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“This isn’t the designated area for you,” he informed me. “The procedures here are regimented, and you’ll have to follow due process. But you’ll need to settle me before proceeding.”

In response to his indirect mention of money, I handed him two N1,000 notes. As he pocketed the bills, he directed me towards an uncompleted room beneath a towering tree. In retrospect, I should have noticed the room upon entering, but its unfinished state and lack of paint caused it to escape my attention.

“See that room? That’s where you’re headed,” he declared, pointing towards it with his index finger. “And once you’re there, make sure to give my boss, seated inside, N500.”

When I entered the room, I met an old man with a noticeable Yoruba accent. He and his companion, a lady in a brown uniform with the tag G. Kantoma, welcomed me. The man sat on a chair, and a table was before him. Opposite him were two plastic chairs awaiting visitors who were either engrossed in signing application letters to visit the prison, as drafted by G. Kantoma or those in the process of providing their details and submitting their phones to the man. Behind these chairs, three wooden benches stood, reserved for additional visitors awaiting their turn. On the right side of the room, cartons containing items, presumably brought in for the inmates, were neatly arranged.

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Observing that people were there before me, I took a seat at the last bench and patiently awaited my turn. During this interlude, the man appeared to derive amusement from bantering with the female visitors while ignoring the men. Understandably, the atmosphere was sombre for the women, while the men maintained a more carefree demeanour.

“Oya, come o,” the man called out to me, indicating that it was my turn. It seemed he expedited the process on my behalf, as others, for unspecified reasons, weren’t ready. As a preliminary step, he requested the payment previously mentioned by the individual who guided me to him. I handed over a N1,000 note to him, and he then proceeded to inquire about my name and phone number, which I gave him.

What struck me as perplexing was the presence of two A4 papers conspicuously affixed just above the room’s window, sternly declaring that bribery was strictly prohibited within the compound. One of the papers boldly proclaimed “VISIT IS FREE”, while the other explicitly stated the prohibition of inducing the officers. Oddly enough, these declarations seemed to serve more as decorations than as deterrents, given the subsequent events.

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Once the man finished collecting my details, he requested my phone, and I promptly submitted it. In return, he handed me a number tag and emphasised that it was necessary to retrieve my phone after meeting with my friend. Shortly afterward, G. Kantoma prompted me to sign, and upon completing this formality, I returned to my designated bench.

Still in the room, some 15 minutes later, I went back to meet the man to request my phone. He blatantly told me that he would not give it to me because I had submitted it. I mentioned that my girlfriend would think I was ignoring her, but he insisted on not releasing it. I then reluctantly went back to my bench.

A while later, a uniformed official entered and informed me and other visitors that it was our turn to go in. He explained that the delay we experienced stemmed from preceding visitors taking an unusually long time to leave. We then formed a queue as instructed by the uniformed man, and we proceeded to the entrance of the prison within the compound.

Inside the prison compound, thorough searches awaited us. A fair-skinned man to the left began calling names submitted to him. When he called mine, I responded while waiting in line. I observed a boy ahead of me, along with two ladies, facing an issue. The boy, evidently distressed, was directed to leave the line. Curious, I beckoned him over and inquired about the situation.

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“I don’t have money to pay him, so he asked me to get out,” the boy explained. It became apparent that he had found himself in a situation beyond his control. When I asked why he arrived without funds, he revealed that he had expended a significant amount purchasing items for the inmate he came to visit. In a bid to alleviate his plight, I handed him N500. He thanked me as he went back to the man.

When the boy was done, I approached the man because it was my turn. He requested money, and I handed him N2,000. He received it as though it was his birthright. In return, he gave me a lanyard. I donned it and proceeded to meet two men stationed by the gate leading to the prison yard. Both were in plain clothes, standing against the side of the wall beside the see-through iron-gated barrier. After completing their search, they directed me to the waiting room. Before I left, I saw these men meticulously inspecting the belongings of others. I did not go through that because I came without any gift. All I went through was extortion. The man by the left asked for “some funds”, and I gave him two bills of N500.

Upon reaching the visiting room, I saw three elderly uniformed men whose faces were similar to those I had seen in August 2021 after officials at Ikoyi Prison confiscated a colleague’s and my phone for attempting to capture pictures of Peter Nielsen, a Denmark citizen accused of murder, at the High Court in Igbosere. These men instructed me to await the arrival of the inmate I had come to see. When they requested some money, I handed them three pieces of N500.

When the inmate arrived, we conversed for some time. Amidst our discussion, I couldn’t help but notice the tearful expressions of a lady who had come to visit another man. The visitors exhibited a palpable desperation to support their incarcerated family and friends. Many wore smiles tainted with pain, while frustration lingered in their gazes.

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Moments later, a uniformed man approached the visitor’s room and asked us to vacate the premises due to our extended stay, as other visitors awaited their turn. The visiting room, with only five plastic chairs allocated for visitors, felt cramped. Inmates had even brought in a bench to accommodate everyone.

Finally, the time to depart arrived. I returned to the fair-skinned uniformed man and, like others, returned the lanyard. Together, we proceeded toward the main gate, where another light-skinned uniformed man carefully opened it, not fully, as if allowing it to swing wide open would make the inmates vanish.

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After two others exited, it was my turn. Just before I squeezed my way out, he whispered, “Drop something for your boy, Chief.”

With limited options, I handed him N500.

Stepping outside, I found my way to the gate to head home. The man who had earlier requested “something” noticed me and inquired if I was leaving. Upon confirmation, he asked if I could spare anything, and I handed him N1,000.

For a less-than-two-hour visit, I found that I had spent N9,000. Perhaps visiting is only free in Ikoyi Prison if you are a spirit.