CALL FOR THE OTHER SIDE OF JUSTICE

By: Halima B. Abdulmaguid

With trembling limbs, bumping others’ shoulders, and inhaling different scents of armpits
in every step, I made my way to the steel bars.

I was in my late twenties when the woman I pursued for ten years finally agreed to marry
me. She wanted to finish her schooling first, so I waited until the day she flipped her tassel. I
was contented being the only man who can hold her hand to the point that not even a single
kiss was shared. However, I was also in my late twenties when I saw the woman I loved the
most naked, lying breathless in banana leaves. How on earth people managed to expect me to
calm myself and not pull the trigger? To my luck, that rascal who rotted long ago was the
governor’s nephew.

Those who transgressed the rights of others deserve to be locked up in jails. But how
about those who fell from grace fortuitously? This place taught me that life does not serve the
same dish to all people. Some eats rice with nothing, some feasts with sundry cuisines. Unsure
of what comes next, people like us have to bite the bullet anyhow.

Worse, surviving became the greatest quest when the pandemic flared up. People
outside armored themselves with masks and distance, while us, inmates, miserably wait for the
domino effect to happen when one COVID-19 positive set foot inside our dystopia. Sometimes I
wonder do these stinky walls really exclude us from the world.

My body is almost collapsing and my white hairs seem unstoppable. Before I could
bewield it, wheezing sounds were produced. I know coughs bring fear to those who are not
aware that I undergone swab testing five days ago and received a negative. I remembered
when the most anticipated day happened, I was there wandering, looking for a safer space. But
everywhere I gazed, such thing does not exist here. Due to lack of hygienic practices, the virus
spread in a flash, affecting thousands of detainees and caused hundreds to die. Fate became
nicer to me for I am not infected, though I doubt if it will last long—especially when I have been
under the weather for weeks. Did the world abandon us? Do they not realize that when one
stumbles, the rest of us flop?

Divulging our sentiments, a minority snatches hope for those who are ill and senile, for
those who committed petty offenses, and for those who have been detained for years without
cases filed against them—yes, it happens. They called it, “humanitarian release”. It sounds
good, almost existent. Its rhythm is a flight of fancy. Most men look at us with tomatoes on their
eyes. Our dirty hands are the only thing seen, the rest are disregarded.

To set me free is unethical for I have sinned, but is detaining me in spite of the outbreak
while I am on my last legs equitable?