It was patrolled constantly by heavily armed guards, whilst four watchtowers, one at each corner of the compound, were manned by sullen-looking soldiers with machine guns. The main block of Broken Ridge was on the seafront, its forbidding exterior ringed by a barbed-wire fence that rose eight feet into the air. Steve took a hit of the beer, and looked around the bar. ‘Thanks, mate,’ said Steve as he grabbed the bottle, watching the man scurry away like a frightened animal. He was dressed only in a pair of dirty denim shorts and smelled of blood and rotting flesh. He walked with a limp, and there were raw, bloody welt-marks down his back where he’d taken a whipping. The man was six foot, noted Steve as he grabbed a bottle of the chilled lager, but he had thick iron manacles clamped to his feet and hands, and there was a metal ring around his neck so that he could be hooked and unhooked from his cell with ease. One of the prisoners quickly brought across a tray, with two bottles of Ghanaian-brewed Stone Strong Lager. ‘I like to think about my cards, Mr West,’ said Abago.
‘I said I’d raise you,’ repeated Steve, a note of quiet determination running through his voice. According to the taxi drivers, the screams of the women being raped could be heard as far away as the capital Malabo. On Bioko, a small tropical island off the main coast of the oil-rich African state of Equatorial Guinea, Broken Ridge jail held more than 5,000 men and women, often for years at a time, cramped sometimes as many as 100 to a cell. But then, reflected Steve, when you ran one of the biggest, most terrifying jails in Africa, you didn’t have to dress for the office. He was wearing a cream linen suit, though it looked to be years since he’d last put on the jacket. Felipe Abago was a big, angry beast of a man, weighing at least 300 pounds and, from the way he sweated in the early-evening warmth, a lot more of it was fat than muscle. The man opposite chuckled, took a deep, thoughtful drag on his cigarette, then glanced furtively at his own cards. ‘Raise you,’ he said, pushing a fifty-dollar bill onto the table. With a life at stake, you’d be hoping for something better than a couple of eights to bet on.Īnd sometimes there was no choice but to play the hand fate dealt you. He could feel a drop of perspiration snake down his neck, then drip down his back. UNTIL YOU’VE SAT DOWN TO a game of poker inside Africa’s most brutal jail you don’t really know what it’s like to sweat, decided Steve West.
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