Chislow hung for a while at the Senate building, with his friend, Lajoe boy. They talked about old times. They talked mostly about secondary school days. It seems unbelievable but Chislow was a prefect during his secondary school days. How he made it there is another story which I will be faithful to chronicle down for you. For Chislow did narrate the story of his secondary school days to me.

I personally never came to grips with Chislow’s story that cold December morning when I was ushered into his dank prison cell to begin writing this chronicle, until the story really began to unfold, much later on. I thought I was only chronicling the story of an exuberant youth who got caught up with the wrong crowd. I thought it was just the adventures of a spoilt boy, now all grown up into a handsome young man that many a Lady will die for, a young man who in the prime of his youth faced the dreadful possibility of death by the hands of the law. Yes, it was that and much more.
It was sometime later, in the month of February that I realized that to give as precise a narrative as I could, that meant that I had to go out and fully investigate and find out from others, the missing portions of the story of Chislow. I will spare you the details of my investigations but give to you the full story as I learned of it from Chislow, others and from my humble self. I will implore you to be patient and follow the story as he narrated it to me through out the months of December, January, February, March and April of that year. We hardly were able to continue through the months of May and June, for then, Chislow’s health took a down turn. June especially, was a month of anxiety; it was filled with days of great worry as I sat beside Chislow’s bedside in the hospital where he was moved from his prison cell. I hardly was around at home. The strain was showing on me and my dear wife, Mejirah, of just ten months, who was expecting our first child. On this fateful day in the hospital, Mejirah was with me by Chislow’s bedside when he insisted that I should pick up my pen and continue my work as a scribe to him. You see, the truth about Chislow’s story is that the story is very much my own story in very many ways. Even now, as I sit, writing down his story, and as I reflect on that particular day in the hospital, I can’t help but accept the fact that life is really frail. Life is like a thread which at any moment can ‘snap’ off at any point. It is of greater interest the way this very thread of life intertwines and binds us all in what some call the ‘Tapestry of Life.’ That really in a nutshell is the story of Chislow. His story, is my story, our story is your story, for it might not have exactly happened to you, but it might as well have happened for you. Yes, for you to learn of the frailty of life. For you and I to learn to recognize the most important things in life and so, place our priorities right.
Prior to Chislow requesting that I should come to the prison, if any one had told me that he and I will share a common story, I would have told that person that he had a loose nut somewhere in his brain. I actually wasn’t going to grant his request in the hospital that day. There were going to be many other days for him to continue – that is, if he made it alive to see those days. I felt he was too weak to strain himself in any way, especially if it was just for him to continue his story. Mejirah was the one who gave me that look that only she could. The look said it all. It pleaded with me to grant him his request. She is one person I have never refused any request. I acquiesced to their ‘combined’ efforts. That day in the hospital is one that I will never forget. Sometimes, I wish I had not listened. Many times more than that, I realize deep down inside of me that it couldn’t have been otherwise. It seemed that fate had designed it that way. I had to write. That is why I said earlier on that his story is really also my story. How could I have ever known that Chislow and I were related? I hear you say, “Related?” Yes. Sadly so, I felt when I found out. Let me not get ahead of myself nor of my story. Let me not confuse you further. Forgive me, for this story is one that touches the heart, it touches me in a very profound way. Come with me back to the musty cell that Chislow inhabited in the Kirikiri Maximum Prisons where I met him for the second day running. Let us continue from where we left Chislow.
The day was a Tuesday. It was the 5th day of the month of December. The weather was cold. Traces of the harmattan haze from up North were visible that early December morning. The cell was a very simple one with just a table and two chairs and a bed that even a rat will go on hunger strike if it were given to it to sleep in. Perhaps the two chairs were put there because the prison authorities were very much aware of the purpose of my visit. Chislow had specifically asked for me, through the then governor of the state of Lagos. He was compelled to grant Chislow’s request because he owed him a favour. Yes, he owed his very own life to Chislow.
I greeted Chislow cheerfully and he responded cheerfully. We sat side by side on metallic chairs. I got my portable mini recorder ready for recording and brought out some paper and a pencil as I made a mental note to request for a change in his prison room from the governor. I love to write with pencil. Don’t ask me why, I just prefer pencils to pens. Chislow looked at the pencil in a surprised way but said nothing. He leaned forward with his elbows on the table and his palms together and continued his story from where we stopped the last time.

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