By Mathew K. Jallow, Associate Editor

Four weeks after the discovery of the body of Biran Jobe in a shallow grave in the woods outside Mandinari village, the anger and bitterness that swept the country was beginning to subside. But, for a segment of the military and security forces, Biran Jobe’s demise and the Sang Pierre saga were Deja Vous all over again. Disillusionment in the military and the other security services were widespread, despite the façade of normalcy that was being presented by the regime. And as in all previous cases, citizens and non-citizens were being arrested and detained, disappearances from the face of the earth were routine and citizens were being tortured and executed by the regime’s military firing squads or by Jammeh’s trained civilian assassins. The case of Sgt Dumbuya a few months earlier, murdered in cold blood and in broad daylight at the Banjul Albert Market, as he fled from Yahya Jammeh’s State House Guards, was one of the most callous and brazen acts of state terror. And now, the murder of Biran Jobe and Sang Pierre’s disappearance opened up old wounds among members of the military and security forces. Jammeh’s murderous loyalists had until now projected their limitless and brutal power through murders, tortures, and abductions, intimidations and disappearances of innocent citizens. But, today, his sadist group of trained assassins was increasingly at odds with the majority military and security personnel as these forces built up the courage to oppose the ongoing cruel carnage being perpetrated by Jammeh’s regime. The increasing restlessness in the military and security forces was beginning to concern the regime, yet by his threats and intimidation, Yahya Jammeh gave the appearance that he was firmly in control. The instances of military and other security forces summoning up the courage by refusing to carry out Jammeh’s orders regardless of the danger this posed on them were widespread. Both Biran and Sang Pierre were arrested for refusing to lure Sgt. Dumbuya to Siffoe village in order to execute him. The stand-off between Jammeh’s loyalists and military and security forces, who were concerned about the ruthlessness of the regime and the direction The Gambia was headed, therefore, marked a new chapter in the regime’s storied history.  The battle lines between the Jammeh loyalists and the majority of our armed forces were being drawn. The day of reckoning was at hand. For once, in the history of our military and security forces, they were putting the interest of Gambians ahead of Yahya Jammeh’s selfish interest. The petty, clueless dictator was on notice. His days were numbered, and Habib, Karamo and Samba would have it no other way.

Habib sat on the protruding root of a giant baobab tree and sipped on a cool lemonade drink on the beach in the outskirts of Barra Town. He looked north towards the open sea where The River Gambia emptied into the vastness of the receptive mighty blue Atlantic Ocean. To the west, below the deep blue sky, a lonely patch of gray cloud shaped like a bearded human head, hung motionless directly above the State House in Banjul. Behind, in the dense canopy of a cluster of large mango trees situated near the old decrepit slave castle, parrots chattered and fought for choice spot to rest and take in the cool ocean breeze. From a few hundred yards away, Karamo recognized his boss and friend Habib, where he sat under the baobab tree, deep in thought and seemingly oblivious of his surroundings. He tiptoed gently as he came closer behind Habib. He thought to scare him, but it did not work. One of the things Habib learnt from his Scotland Yard training, was the art of vigilance, and without turning around, he sensed the presence of Karamo from the distance. The two sat and exchanged pleasantries before turning to the business of strategizing what they should do in response to Yahya Jammeh’s ruthless and murderous regime. By the time they finished their discussion, the sun was low down the horizon and darkness was creeping in gradually. They parted ways near the entrance of Barra Ferry Terminal. Habib stood on the upper deck of the ferry near the captain’s cabin and watched Karamo disappear behind the mass of people struggling to make their way into the ferry boat. Karamo, whose second wife was a resident of Essau village, climbed on a slab of concrete to catch a brief glimpse of Habib. They waved at each other goodbye just as the ferry’s engine came alive, where the propellers churned the salty waters into swirling mass of angry foam. Soon, Habib turned his thought to Samba Jallow. They had scheduled a meeting in Banjulding between Samba and Bangali Sumareh a senior prison official at the Mile II Prisons. A little less than three weeks before, it was Bangali who disclosed the transfer of Sang Pierre to the very overcrowded and notoriously filthy Remand Wing of the prison. Samba had prepared a detailed report of Sang Pierre’s ordeal at the hands of the NIA, which both Habib and Karamo had already read with absolute horror. Now, Samba wanted Sang Pierre too to read it behind the prison walls before it would be sent to the online newspapers in the U.S. The report read like the script of a horror movie. It was unprecedented in its brutality and mercilessness, and as Bangali read the report, Samba handed over to him, tears of pain flowed down his face too. He could not believe that a human being could do what Jammeh’s thugs did to Sang Pierre. On the evening Sang Pierre was arrested, he was taken to the notorious torture chambers Yahya Jammeh had mockingly renamed The V.I.P. Lounge. This is where civilians, political prisoners and military and security officers were locked up once they were arrested. It comprised three windowless rooms fitted with sound proof wall paneling designed to absorb the sounds of cries and distress in order to prevent people outside from hearing the echoes of torture and death within the darkened NIA torture chambers.

Sang Pierre had been arrested one night six weeks earlier and brought to the NIA. That same night, two dark skinned masked men walked into his detention room around what Sang believed was ten o’ clock at night. The time was only a guess. He was not really sure. For all he knew, it could have been midnight or mid-morning. Sang’s watch had been taken away before he was slapped with handcuffs and led down a narrow alley, to an empty room refitted with a heavy steel door. Standing alone in the windowless room fifteen minutes later, Sang became scared for the first time in many years. As an NIA agent, he knew that many civilian, military and security personnel had become physically disabled or lost their lives at the hands of the NIA. He looked up the ceiling and in the middle of the east wall, four thin rectangular cracks barely visible in the darkness, showed where a window once brought in sunlight. Sang looked at the two men, and waited to hear from them what he had done wrong. One of the men stared at him, then turned and spoke in Jola to the other one standing by the bolted door. He came close to where Sang stood in a corner of the room and asked him to turn around. Sang obliged, and the man slapped his wrists with handcuffs. With his left hand still holding the cuffs behind Sang’s back, the man cupped his right hand behind Sang’s head and drove him hard against the wall. He then released his hold, stepped back quickly and let Sang collapsed like jelly on the concrete floor. He lay motionless and barely breathing. His eyes rolled back into his head so that only the white was visible. His nose and mouth bled profusely, and the right side of his cheek was bruised and bleeding too. The masked man stood above him, uttered something in Jola before kicking Sang hard in the face. Using his military issue boots as a weapon, the mysterious man placed his right foot on Sang’s left cheek and lifted himself up from the floor. Sang screamed out in pain once and began to pant rapidly and heavily like a wounded animal. The second masked man reached for a six-foot chain anchored to the concrete floor, held Sang by both his legs and dragged him towards the middle of the room. Together, the two masked men wrapped the chain around Sang’s waist and locked it with a steel padlock. Sang was still motionless. One of the men went out and returned with a bottle of water. He poured it on Sang’s face and waited for a reaction. Slowly, Sang regained consciousness again. When he opened his eyes, he could only make out the silhouette of the two men standing above him. They tore Sang’s shirt from his body and left him lying on the cold concrete floor. The man by the door reached out for a thick leather belt hanging on the wall. He stroked Sang hard once on his side with all his might he could muster. Sang grunted, and then cried out loud before wriggling his body on the floor in an effort to ease the pain. The flesh over his ribs was torn in several places where the leather belt left a foot long mark over his ribs. And his body was completely covered in blood. He had nothing to eat all day and he felt weak and susceptible to the beatings he was receiving from his jailers. It was dark and quite, when Sang finally got up, so quite that he could hear his heart beat. The sound of silence was frightening. Despite the excruciating pain he felt each time he touch his sides, he soon managed to fall asleep. The night was eventless. The following morning Sang woke up at the crack of dawn. He was as groggy as a drunken man. He got up and sat down on the floor. He had a long day ahead of him, and he had no idea was going to happen to him that day.

The ground shook and trembled, the night birds fled and people of Banjul were awoken to a loud boom. It was a noise they never head before. The time was exactly twelve midnight. A left wing of The State House came crashing down to the ground. There was smoke everywhere. At the far end of the building, several fires were gutting down the old stately and palatial colonial house. There was pandemonium as fire trucks desperately tried to extinguish the fires flaring up all over the adjacent buildings too. The bomb had completely destroyed the State House, and the Quadrangle buildings closest to the ruined State House were ablaze too. Meanwhile, twenty six miles away near Brikama, a burst of steel piercing machine gun fire immobilized the army general’s fortified army truck. When the gunfire stopped, the six occupants of the truck, the army general, his security detail and a few friends, were slumped and lifeless where they sat. There was blood splatters everywhere. Two men in military camouflage with amour piercing AK 47 hanging around their necks, approached the wrecked military vehicle cautiously, pried the front doors open and proceeded to frisk the men for their identities. That morning, bodies of several more military and security officers were found dumped all over town, from Bakau to Brikama. Military contingents were deployed and standing guard in strategic locations around the greater Banjul area. The State House, the symbol of the colonial era, was now a smoldering mass of rubble despite the best efforts of the fire services. And there, beneath the mountain of rubble, a dictator laid lifeless. It was the end of a ruthless era. That morning at sharp seven o’ clock in the morning, GRTS lifted the anxiety from the hearts of the population. “There was a change of government over night,” the TV announcer said. The news seemed too good to be true. Before long, hundreds of thousand of Gambians poured out into the streets. Car horns blared ceaselessly and people danced everywhere one looked. Complete strangers hugged each other and tears of joy filled the eyes of everyone. A few people walked around town like zombies. They could not believe that this nightmare had finally ended. At 8 o’ clock that morning, people around the country gathered around their television sets to listen to the news. The television cameras beamed on six unfamiliar faces five of whom were in combat ready military camouflage with sawed-off AK 47s slung around their shoulders. It was Habib Badjan, Karamo Jaiteh, Samba Jallow, Bangali Sumareh and Mamour Njie. A few months earlier, it was agreed that one civilian representative of the dissidents in the U.S would be present on the day of the coup. Flanked by Habib and Mamour on the one side and Karamo and Bangali on the other, the only civilian in the group, with Samba standing directly behind him, read a prepared message to the nation. The essence of the message was simple. The complete restoration of democracy, freedom and liberty, right to associate and assemble, the exorcising of corruption from the system once and for all time, the implementation of an aggressive development plan, the criminalization of any form of economic tribalism among many other things. The next day three planeloads of dissident Gambians from all over the U.S and Europe descended on Yundum Airport. It was a new day. The mood was somber. Hope was renewed. Gambians could dare once again to dream again. A new era had begun. The horizon was limitless, and the ceiling infinite.