THE BOLA BOYS (A true life story) How i was almost gang-beaten in Abuja during a documentary photography shootout

The task of a documentary photographer is to painstakingly ensure that people, places, and other particularities are well-documented photographically so as to create significant exposures and cognitive memories. He/she is also saddled with the responsibility of closing the knowledge gap by telling stories through his/her camera. Yahaya Habeeb Kayode, a passionate documentary photographer narrates his experience.

(Bola means ‘trash or junks’ in Hausa, so Bola boys according to this narrative are young chaps that push locally-made carts around to help people dispose of waste in exchange for money)

I was on a photo-documentary tour on a sunny afternoon, covering the Kubwa area, Abuja. I strapped my camera around my neck, heading towards NNPC junction from Arab road after taking a couple of shots. While I was on my way, I saw Four Bola boys roaming around with their carts and were about to cross to the other side of the express road. This suddenly grabbed my attention. “This is going to be a nice shot” I pondered.

I quickly grabbed my Nikon camera which was crowned with a 55-200mm zoom lens. Click! Click! I pressed the shutter speed button after adjusting my ISO, aperture, and shutter speed in the camera’s manual setting (automatic can disappoint you when you least expect it) and after I had also set my optical and zoom lens for precision. I took a couple of shots as the boys were about to cross, and while they were crossing, I continued to shoot them (not with a gun but with my camera). I didn’t stop snapping because I needed more awesome shots. Even though I was far from the boys, one of them had seen me and realized I was taking their pictures. He initially gestured that I should take his pictures, (well! That was what I thought) so, I continued to snap him as he posed with his cart. 

Meanwhile, the other Bola boys who apparently looked older spoke to him in Hausa (language barrier is not a good thing). I couldn’t speak nor understand very well, even though my uncle’s wife (CEO, Napholar Creatives) had been giving me some basic tutorials in the Hausa language since my arrival in Abuja (Hausa 101). The only words that I seemed to have assimilated very well are “Ya Kuri” (don’t get angry or calm down) and “Mai ya faru” (what can I do for you? or what happened?). 

The boy I had continuously snapped, gestured, again and again, waving his hand. I couldn’t interpret his gesture this time but I sensed that something was not right. Could it be that those boys had told the younger one that I was a police officer or a secret agent who was sent to take their pictures so that they could be arrested? Maybe I was right, the Bola boys had left their carts and crossed over to my side. While others stood a bit far away, the younger one whom I had focused on, came to me and demanded that he wanted to see the pictures. Out of humility, I showed him, thinking he would appreciate me for taking them. However, it was another case entirely, I guess he was sent to confirm if I had truly taken their picture. 

After seeing the pictures, he reached out subsequently to others and they communicated for some minutes in Hausa (damn! I was lost). The boy, then gestured that I should delete the pictures. My guess was valid, they had successfully influenced him. I tricked him into believing that I had deleted them but I did not. Suddenly, his expressions (both in speech and gesture) became ostensibly tense but I couldn’t understand all he had said. He tried to communicate with me in English alternatively, but it was even worse than I could comprehend. When I spoke pidgin to him that I had deleted them; and that I was not anything close to being a police officer, just a photographer who document people, places, and other particularities, it turned out that, the simpler I made my expressions, the more ineffective our communication became. It wasn’t helping the situation in any way. 

He reached out again to others who had gotten closer by that time. From their countenances and gesticulations, one would know that these guys meant business. It was about to get less peaceful at that moment, I wished anyone could initiate a code-red on my behalf? I was about to be assaulted by a gang of Bola boys. As they got closer, I was watching them in slow motion like a group of terminators, sent from one planet to destroy me. But as a “guy” that grew up in Lagos and with much exposure to many of the “impromptu beatings” that happen there, I had to put up some drama; acting as if my phone was ringing and I needed to receive the call. I gesticulated to the younger boy beside me, that I will be right back. I wore my camera around my neck as I moved farther and farther away, displaying some serious dramatics as if I was in a fight with the person I was speaking to (in this life you have to know how to act if you want to survive). 

Suddenly, I increased my pace and quickly crossed over to another side of the express road (Moya look away!) I didn’t stop. The farther I went, the more inaudible the rantings of the Bola boys became. They seemed to be contemplating crossing over but they didn’t eventually. At a point, I was very far from them that they had become the size of an ant as I looked back. I had reached my destination for that moment; I was so relieved. “How will the headline appear in the newspaper”, I quizzed myself. “Bola boys attack photographer in Abuja”, I replied and smiled. As I climbed the pedestrian bridge, a new mission popped in my head; to shoot an establish aerial shot to reflect the aesthetics of the express road. Abuja is really a nice place but if you are a photographer beware of the Bola boys.

Habeeb Kayode, Yahaya (jaypee-d-poet)

Author of The Talking Deer

13/11/2019

Contacts

Email: yahayahabeeb@yahoo.com, juniorprof50@gmail.com

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