I stared at the clock just above the studio door. It was exactly 11:40PM, just about time for me to exit the studio. I had already spent two hours on the mic - one hour and another covering up for a colleague who had called in sick. My voice was tired and I had two songs left on my playlist plus a last call.
“Alright, Lagos, last call for the night. Who’s keeping me company?” I spoke into the mic.
Just immediately the phone line blinked. "And I think I have a caller." I leaned in and pressed it.
“Good evening, my last caller of the day. You're live on Midnight Talks...”
“I have a hostage,” the caller said, cutting me off.
I paused, not so sure what I heard. "Sorry, I didn't hear you correctly."
A low chuckle. “Exactly what I said. I have a hostage." The caller replied.
This time I froze. I sat back on my seat and glanced through the transparent glass at my producer to be sure he heard exactly what I heard. Just as I thought, he was looking at me with eyes shot up and almost pulling out his socket.
“Sir, I seriously want to believe that this is a joke or a prank of some sort.” I said slowly, “You can't say something like that on a live broadcast..."
“Joke? Does it sound like I’m joking to you?”
The caller replied. Whose voice had no atom of violence in it. In fact, he was calmer than every other caller that day. This shook a strange fear in me.
“And who's the hostage?” I asked calmly.
“I want you to guess.”
I was already sweating on my forehead. I wiped them with the back of my palms. I looked over to Chuka, my producer. He was scribbling something on his notepad. Then, finally, he raised it up.
"Stall him. I'm calling the police"
I nodded, that was a great idea but on the other hand. Our radio station was the second most listened to across the country. If the caller feared the police he wouldn't have called on a live broadcast. I quickly shook my head. Something in me just told me this may not be about crime. It could be something else.
"A Minister?" I asked.
"Wrong."
"A governor's child."
"Seems like you're going to waste my time. You know what, let's make it interesting. Let's ask your callers, maybe if they get it right, I'll let the hostage go." The caller said.
"But you're on the line. We can't take another call with you here. Why don't you just let the hostage go and we can talk this through. Do you need money or...."
"Then use your WhatsApp line." The caller cuts in slowly like he was choosing his words.
I paused and looked at my producer. He stood there staring at me, apparently waiting to see my big move.
I leaned to the mic again. “Alright, listeners," I said, trying not to sound tense on the radio. “Let’s save a life. You can send your guesses to our WhatsApp line.”
A pause. “Good. I like an audience.”
Without waiting, messages started flooding our WhatsApp line. Each with different guesses ranging from,
*"Your girlfriend" to Your boss? God, I wish it were even my boss. I hate that man" I read a few out loud.
The caller laughed at the last one. “Maybe this is a waste of time. But clearly shows you how people harbor Ill intentions against the other. What a sad world.” he said
Just then it hit me. Maybe he wasn't hurting anyone, maybe it was himself. If he was hurting someone, why would he waste so much time on the radio, knowing too well that the police might try to track his call? I leaned closer to the mic. “You’re not hurting anyone tonight. You're hurting yourself.”
Silence.
“You've been on the radio for minutes now without laying your terms knowing fully well that the police might be tracking this line. That's because you're not hurting anyone. The only one you're hurting is yourself." I continued.
“You're smart,” he said finally.
Something cold ran down my spine. “Where are you?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Tell me anyway.” I looked up to see police men walking into the station. I sighed, Chuka must have ignored my advice and called them.
A long breath. “It doesn't matter."
I pressed on. "It matters. Your life matters."
I heard him take a deep breath. "It doesn't matter now. Don't act like you care now. Nobody cared when I was being beaten around by this failed system. My father served this country as a cop till he died. His gratuity was denied. When I tried to fight the system for his gratuity, I was locked up for years. Ever since life hasn't been easy. I can't even afford to eat. I can't even afford to get a job because nobody wants to employ someone who has been in prison" He resumes tapping. "What's the use of living when nobody wants me? It's a perfect night." he resumed tapping again.
My throat felt tight. “A perfect night for what?” I asked, concerned now. I saw Chika scribbling in his notepad again. The police were leaving now.
“I’m ending it. When the clock strikes twelve.”
"Keep stalling. The police have tracked his location. Just a few blocks away. They're on their way."
I looked at the clock. It was five more minutes before 12am. I shut my eyes and prayed the police would get to him on time. Then I thought of my next move.
"You know I didn't really get your name?"
There was silence. He didn't reply. I guess he didn't want to reveal his name.
I didn't press further. "Can I call you my friend?"
"Whatever wakes your ego."
I swallowed. In a calm voice, I asked. “How long have you been listening to my show?"
“Six years.”
“And in six years, have I ever signed off before saying, ‘Goodnight, you’re not alone’?”
He paused for a few seconds. “No.”
“Then why do you think you're alone? We're in this together. I lost my father in a similar situation too.”
"Was he a cop?"
"Soldier. KIA. Died in a blast, his ashes were sent home in a coffin. Couldn't even recognize his face before he was buried.'
There was shuffling, the creak of a chair. A sniff. "Why are you telling me this?"
I looked at the clock, and it was 11:59 PM. "All I'm saying. I didn't take my life or blame the government. I'm yet to get his pension too."
Just then I heard a loud bang on the other side of the phone. "You called the police? Why?" The caller asked, his breath increasing.
"Because I still need you alive. We can fight this together. I'm sure there are others out there that's in a similar situation. We can fight together and get what's ours. You spoke out because you're brave and I commend you for that. Please."
"Why should I trust you?" He asked in a scared voice.
"Because I'm making this promise to you on a live broadcast."
Just then, I heard a crash over the phone. "Freeze, it's the police."
Then my caller yelled. "Don't shoot. Don't shoot, please."
The line went dead leaving the studio in dead silence.
I leaned back on my seat and took a deep breath, staring at the clock, my hands trembling. It was 12:02 AM.
Just as I promised and with the help of other citizens with similar situations and well-wishers. We formed a force that demanded what's rightfully ours. It became a global voice to all the oppressed out there.
My caller, whose name I later learnt was Matthew, was released months later. We paid for his therapy session and fought till he was given his father's gratuity in full.
Till today, I still sign off from my radio program with the same promise,
"Goodnight, you're not alone".
