The Mokolo prison is a large white rectangle with barbed wire lining its top edges and two watch towers in diagonally opposite corners. Shiny green doors that lead to the top of the towers offset the dull white of the walls, practically gray now from years of withstanding the dusty winds of the semi-desert. The most unique aspect of the outside view is that there is a giant tree sprouting from the center of the edifice, humbling its height and giving a clue to its hollow internal structure.
To enter the building, one passes through a waist-high gate made of brown mud and large rocks before reaching an over- metal door which is open during the day. Through the entrance, there is a dark hallway, where armed guards in olive uniforms sift through the sacks of grain brought by visitors. The head guard sits at a disintegrated wooden desk in his mustard-colored beret and with his sign-in sheet in hand. Oftentimes, his eyes are glassy and he slurs his speech. At least a few of the other guards also greet me with bil-bil, the local brew, on their breaths.
Now that I am a regular guest, I no longer have to sign the sheet and they no longer accompany me into the prison itself. They simply hand me the key to the women’s quarter and then unbolt the next large metal door leading to the courtyard.
Upon entering, there is a small blockade composed of aluminum doors propped on their sides to prohibit access from prisoners. From this area, I can look out and see nearly the entirety of the prison, which is an open space filled with thin and dejected men, many who have torn shirts and no shoes.
Along the walls of the rectangle, twenty-three chambers with metal doors open into the court. A couple of these rooms are used as infirmaries, another two house minors, and one is a sort of “rehabilitation and education center” where missionaries will sometimes give lessons. The remainder is used as sleeping quarters, where the male prisoners are crammed together to sleep on plastic floor mats. The largest rooms accommodate nearly sixty prisoners, but they average about thirty. In one corner of the building, there is a water spout and a few latrines. The men take turns throughout the day bathing and filling buckets.
The prison was built with a capacity of 230, but on most days there are well over 400 prisoners. The overcrowding is mainly caused by the inefficiency of the judicial system. Over half of the prisoners are still awaiting trial, and before ever having seen a judge many will serve out more time than would be required by a sentence. The majority of the men are charged with theft.
In the square, most prisoners sit in the center, where a massive tree gives at least a ten foot span of shade. Near the trunk, a few vendors have laid out merchandise, such as soap, salt, pens, and a container of beignets. Others sit or stand in small groups all along the court, cooking on small wood fires or playing games. Interspersed throughout the groups are teenagers and even children of ten and eight. Their jaws are clenched and eyes hardened, but more often than not a fleeting look of desperation betrays them before they are pushed aside by the men, who crowd around the barrier to shout at me.
I face the ground except for a quick scan of my surroundings. I do this not only for my safety, but as a modest sign of respect to the prisoners who frantically try to get my attention. I give the key to a prisoner whose job is to maintain the blockade, and he opens the padlocked door directly to the right, which is the women’s quarter.
Before me, there is a long and narrow corridor of about twenty-five feet with four cells lining the right side. Along the ceiling, a wide strip of sunlight illuminates the narrow drainage ditch directly below. Except for the last room, where all of the women sleep, these cells are used for solitary confinement. Normally they are empty, but on occasion, I will see a man’s hands reaching out to me from the crack near the floor. When they try to speak to me, they are hushed by the women prisoners.
Directly ahead and sharing a wall with the women’s room is the latrine. Although there is no door, I’ve never dared to fully examine it. It is dark and ominous and the rats that scamper in and out act as a further deterrent.
Branches of wood, marmites, and dried leaves are positioned along the left divide, where the water spout is attached in the corner. Ordinarily, the passage is filled with smoke from the women’s cooking.
To feed the prisoners, the government provides funds for one meal of millet a day based on the intended capacity. However, since the actual amount of prisoners is nearly double that, prisoners depend on their families to bring them food; they cultivate the surrounding land; and they sell hand-made artisan products. Even so, meals are sparse, consisting of only one hand’s portion twice a day of red millet couscous, accompanied by a sauce with leaves.
Usually no more than ten women prisoners reside in the quarter, but there are also a few children. These hollowed-eyed infants are fastened to their mother’s backs and the toddlers amble among filth, hungry and dampened. They have been born into the prison and will stay there until school age, when they will either be kept by family members or left to the streets.
In contrast to the men, the women’s crimes are more serious, as most have been charged with some form of homicide. However, there are occasional stories of grave injustice, where a woman has been accused of sorcery or ‘abandoning her home.’ One woman was placed in jail for her son’s crime after he fled to Nigeria.
When I first began visiting the prison, I was not aware of their charges, and I didn’t ask because I considered it impolite. I focused on my work, which was discussing general health topics such as common illnesses, hygiene, and HIV/AIDS. Gradually we began to discuss more personal topics such as alcohol abuse, decision-making, and family violence.
Often times I was frustrated by the women’s difficulty in comprehending the subject matter. Language barriers and lack of education were obstacles. Only one of the women prisoners I have met attended school and is able to communicate in French. Most were children of farmers and were married well before the age of eighteen, speaking only their patois and Fulfulde, originally a trade language.
Moreover, after several months, I felt that I had exhausted all my ideas for new topics, and each week was becoming more difficult. I often thought of giving up completely, but the group seemed grateful for the visits. When I missed a week they would tell me that they had waited and grown anxious.
About this same time, I discovered the truth about the female prisoners. One day, a guard mentioned that many of them had committed murder. I then went to the prison warden and he confirmed the information. Up until that time, I had assumed the women had committed non-violent crimes. They seemed as docile as any other women I had met in the far north. This led me to a whole different kind of struggle, one where I was toiling over questions of good and evil and wondering what they had done and why.
Shortly afterward, the discussion topic of the day was simply “life in prison.” The women described the lack of contact with their families as the hardest aspect of being in confinement. They talked about the cramped and sweltering room during dry season, a leaking roof in the rainy season, “having to lie in dirt and eat dirt,” having rats “bite their feet” while sleeping, and the “wicked” guards. But above all, what bothered them most was that many of their family members had stopped visiting. Some had disowned them completely, and others had just forgotten them.
Cameroon has a communal culture, where the togetherness of family is one of the most distinctive characteristics of life from the time of birth to death. Its importance is exaggerated to the point where if one leaves for a week he is accused of having “abandoned” his friends.
During the dialogue, I had an epiphany. I realized that the lessons were not important at all. It was just my being there that mattered to the women. They wanted someone to care about them, to listen to them. Moreover, I thought their stories could provide me with insights into human nature.
Thus, I began interviewing all the women, one by one, about their lives and the crimes of which they were accused. I explained that I would write everything down for others to read.
Starting next week, I will begin posting these narratives.
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