by Ifeoluwa Olutayo
In 2018, Femi Ariyo was summoned to a police station by the now-disbanded Special Anti-Robbery Squad department of the Nigeria Police Force (SARS). He had given his bus to a junior colleague to drive for the day and it had been impounded. What followed was a trumped-up charge of armed robbery and four years behind bars for a crime he did not commit. He lost his wife–who remarried and left his children with his older sister–and lost four years of his life before being released in 2022.
Jide Odusanya spent 26 years in Prison (starting in 1991) for a trumped-up charge of armed robbery before regaining his freedom in 2018, his only crime being getting involved in a physical altercation between his friend and a mechanic.
Lukman Adeyemi, a bricklayer, spent 24 years in prison, including 15 years on death row, for a false murder charge, placed on him by the powers that be. His only sin was following his friend Ismaila to the station after this friend (and roommate) was summoned to the station in the year 2000.
These are but a few; there are so many others who languish in various cells, awaiting doom for doing nothing other than being unlucky enough to be in the wrong place or unlucky enough to fit a particular description. This is a hellish reality for thousands; life paused due to false imprisonment and the cruel hands of a dysfunctional polity.
One thing I’m familiar with as a given in Nigerian society is disappearances. There are disappearances of Self to fight for survival, of dreams and hope due to trying economic situations, of order in corners due to ethnic and religious biases, of freedoms because of the same ethnic and religious divides and of people, for ransom or for speaking up against hardships.
There is, however, a certain kind that has existed for a long time, one that stems from corruption in the institutions meant to maintain order in our society.
That is the kind that Tejiri, a film by Joshua Tsotso & Deladem Duvi, and written by Joshua Tsotso, Daphne Atsutse and Amarachi Nwaozuzu, seeks to interrogate.
The film, Tejiri, follows the inexplicable disappearance of a young man, Tejiri “Joojo” Turkson (Kofi Adu-Gyamfi) and the community-inspired search for him by law enforcement, represented by the talented detective, Silas Prempeh (Brian Angels), who unbeknownst to him, must work against interests way above his pay grade.
The story runs on two concurrent narratives, a detective trying to make sense of this missing person case and of Joojo, who finds himself in prison under another name, trying to survive long enough to see his family and the sun again.
The film’s non-linear narrative structure works very well, as we are like detectives, runtime revealing bits and pieces to us, our journey mirroring that of the detective, further engaging us in this sprawling conspiracy. The introduction sets up a humanity that we need to embrace whenever incarcerated people are considered, and it’s key if we are to empathise with the Tejiri, trapped behind these walls, just as many of those around him may have suffered the same fate. Tejiri, a promising young man about to take an exam for a scholarship, has his life turned upside down– not due to his own failings, but an institutional one.
The ruling party positions itself as one with the people’s interests at heart, making a show of press appearances all to show their commitment to finding the missing young man. It’s all for nought, as they are only interested in shoring up support for the next elections, just around the corner. It’s representative of the face of democracy on the African continent, where public office is one not of service, but of prestige and intent to perpetuate financial mismanagement. This is just not a Ghanaian story (though that is where it’s set), but one familiar, no doubt, to those like me who live in Lagos, Nigeria.
Optics is the name of the game.
Prempeh–the detective– is cool-headed and assured, working only by the facts wherever he can, and making sure to never overextend himself. Baako on the other hand–his new partner– is a mess of false intuition and impatience, the kind that ensures no fair inquiry for anyone caught in his sights, faithful only to lax applications of the law. These kinds litter the streets, wreaking havoc on the lives of so many young men, all in the pursuit of “justice”.
There are interesting uses of film language in this film, with memories represented in such a unique way that brings the detective into the very happenings, and us into his process. The stylistic choices serve to heighten the action and present a better understanding of Tejiri’s life, all through the lens of family and friends. Its technical successes can also be found throughout the film, with Kojo’s apprehending and the prison denouement particular highlights.
As Tejiri struggles with escape plans and the very real chance of mortal end in prison, he also finds a connection with one who is seemingly there for criminality, but of which the root cause is systematic oppression of those who can’t fight for themselves. It’s a very nuanced representation of how criminality can also stem from the failings of a system, one set up to cater for a select few, instead of the masses that form the core of it.
As the case heats up, Prempeh begins to uncover a web of lies, going to the very top of the food chain and Tejiri begins to find the very essence of self, weaponised to ensure his survival of the incoming Kpojiemo (a rite of survival among the incarcerated housed in Cantarkri Prison).
The denouement is satisfactory as our two protagonists face up against oppression and corruption, and the weaponisation of incarceration for political gains. It’s rewarding and our story comes to a grateful end.
The film’s commitment to showing just how people can get roped into the nefarious plans of those in the corridors of power is strikingly relevant, as it is a reality that we live in today.
Films should reflect the realities of the societies that they come from, and no doubt, given how much of my country I can see in this film, it’s clear that the very personal can transmute into the deeply universal problem of carceral violence, against the body and the society.
There is a scene that I find very striking. The webs are unravelling, and Prempeh, the usually cool-headed detective, loses that very cool, parked on the road, out of the car, and screaming into the void.
Behind Prempeh, you can see the Black Star Gate (located in Black Star Square, Accra), commissioned by Kwame Nkrumah–the first Ghanaian President–to represent freedom and justice, but more importantly, the ability of the State to control its affairs. If that control exists at the state level, it must also exist for the people the state governs. Alas, carceral weaponisation is endemic to the soul of 21st-century African democracy, and it strips people of that very agency.
It’s a profound shot, encapsulating the very struggle that the film represents, of Man against the system, and of a real sense, Man against Self.
If we are to move forward as a people, we must begin to question these systems in search of an equitable and just life for all people.
