“Gang Wars. Street culture. Street kings. The patient call of karma…Power may delay consequences, but it does not always erase them.”
Some years ago, gangs ruled the streets of Ibadan. Leaving your house each morning required vigilance. You had to be careful about the routes you took because, in a split second, normalcy could give way to bedlam. It was that bad.
The city was often terrorised by convoys of reckless drivers ferrying cutlass-wielding thugs whose minds were clouded by drugs.
One tragedy that remains deeply etched in my memory was that of a medical student who was caught in the crossfire around the ever-busy Iwo Road axis. He died from gunshot wounds. He was, sadly, one of many innocent victims who paid the ultimate price for battles that were never theirs.
Gang Wars, Street Kings And The Waiting Karma
Street kings, street lords, gangs. Who are they?
Most of them did not begin life with the ambition of becoming feared figures, though many were born in the streets.
For most, their original path was to apprentice and learn a trade, often as commercial drivers. Along the way, many joined transport unions.
There is nothing inherently wrong with belonging to a professional union. The tragedy begins when that profession becomes a recruiting ground for political gangsterism and violent supremacy. The safety of lives and property then becomes collateral damage.
The making of a street king does not happen overnight. It doesn’t even happen in a year.
It is a gradual initiation into a dangerous world where one learns, unlearns, and relearns the unwritten codes of the streets.
Neutrality is almost impossible because refusing to take sides can earn one the reputation of being a snitch or an enemy.
For decades, street groups have often been linked, rightly or wrongly, to political power structures that find them useful during election seasons.
It is no secret that factions within transport unions have sometimes been accused of serving as foot soldiers in political contests.
When the elections are over and the political assignments dry up, the violence can spill back into society, leaving ordinary citizens to bear the consequences.
But the streets have rules.
Foremost among them is the principle of retaliation. An eye for an eye.
The streets rarely preach forgiveness; they demand atonement. And, more often than not, the currency of that atonement is blood.
Loyalty is non-negotiable, and when rewarded, it comes lavishly.
A successful street king eventually acquires money, influence, property and social status.
He begins to live the life he once admired from a distance. He relocates to an upscale neighbourhood, enrols his children in prestigious schools, establishes businesses for his wife, or wives and sends his children abroad.
He attends lavish parties, religious gatherings and becomes a philanthropist.
To the public, he appears transformed. His shoes shine. He smells of expensive perfume. His generosity becomes the new story.
Perhaps, in his own mind, those good deeds help bury a chapter of his life he desperately wants forgotten.
But some believe the past has a long memory.
Call it karma, consequences or simply the lingering weight of old conflicts. Whatever name one chooses, unresolved scores often have a way of resurfacing.
Old grudges remain. The memory of fallen associates lingers. Betrayals are not easily forgiven. Failed deals, stolen loyalties and personal rivalries have a way of outliving the wealth that follows.
The streets have long memories.
During my years as a reporter, I experienced this reality firsthand.
I was assigned with a Senior Crime Reporter to cover a rival transport union leader who had been brutally wounded during the Ibadan gang wars and was receiving treatment at Adeoyo Hospital.
I wasn’t enthusiastic about the assignment. First, I didn’t think it covered my beat. Secondly, I rarely forget disturbing images, and I knew whatever I saw would remain with me for years.
After much persuasion, we were allowed into the ward. I stood back while my senior colleague moved closer.
The man, well over six feet tall, lay almost motionless beneath a thin white sheet stained red by blood seeping from deep machete wounds.
To this day, I cannot remember whether he survived.
I make no allegation about his past or his actions. But anyone familiar with street violence understands the language of reprisals. Battles for supremacy often become endless cycles of revenge.
Not everyone dies by the sword. Some survive only to battle drug addiction, ill health, poverty or the psychological burden of the lives they once lived. Others become mere shadows of themselves.
Art, as it often does, mirrors life. Stories such as these find expression in films like Adaba, Gangs of Lagos and King of Boys. Fiction borrows heavily from realities many cities have witnessed.
Street culture. Street kings. The patient call of karma.
In many ways, this is why the story of Toba Ijaya resonates with so many people.
Ijaya in Yoruba evokes fear. Something frightening, something to be dreaded. Such an alias is not earned by the faint-hearted.
Yet, like every towering figure, there are feet of clay.
Power may delay consequences, but it does not always erase them.
