Is police brutality the next public health hazard?

Years ago, on my way to pick up the children from school, I was stopped at a police check point.

It was at the height of Boko Haram crisis in Kano and there were check points everywhere: the army, police, civil defence and even immigration. They had put up road blocks everywhere and would stop and search people at random. The police officer waved me down as I approached the check point. I slowed down and lowered my window. He walked over to my side, menacingly and stuck his head through my window. His breath stank of alcohol and weed. I leaned away instinctively.

‘Where you dey go?’ He gruffed.

‘Miyangu Road’

‘Wetin you dey go find dia?’

He had a wicked glint in his eye as he looked me over. He smiled at me lewdly showing yellow stained teeth. Goosebumps rose on the back of my arms instantly. I knew not to attempt any form of defiance against this man- he was obviously high on something. Putting on my most civil voice, I replied: ‘I am going to pick up my children from school’.

‘Ah, you don marry?’

Cursing my youthful face and small body structure, I answered reluctantly- ‘Yes’

‘Wey your husband?’ he continued. By now he was leaning against my car door casually, his face in my space, as if he had all the time in the world. I was running late and other cars had queued up behind me, impatiently. They dare not horn however, for fear of being the next target.

‘Fine woman like you, I say wey your husband be?’

I tried not to let my irritation and anger show. My palms were sweaty and my heart was beating wildly. How dare he? Was this part of his job? The stench coming from him made me reply politely: ‘He has travelled’

‘Ah! If na me be your husband, I no go travel leave you o! I go just dey knack you every day…….……’

I did not wait to hear the rest. Till today I do not know the strength that possessed me to suddenly hit the accelerator and drive wildly past the check point in panic. I remember hearing the ringing of his maniacal laughter as I bulldozed through the tyres they had mounted on the road. My heart was beating fast as I fled in wild panic. Adrenalin is a powerful thing. By the time I reached my children’s school, my cheek was wet with tears. I was not aware that I had been crying. Tears of rage, I suppose. Since when did sexual harassment become part of the police check list? And the worst of it was that, had I reported, some flimsy retort would have been given: ‘Person no fit play with you again?’

Over the last few weeks, we’ve seen an unprecedented number of people take to the streets across the country, in the middle of a pandemic, to protest against police brutality. We’ve also witnessed countless instances of peaceful protestors being met with police violence. Against this backdrop, we are having conversations—in the media, on social media, and among our friends and family about the deeply intertwined and historically embedded epidemics of injustice that people are fighting against. And many of us are coming to understand that violence perpetrated by the police, disproportionately against young Nigerians, in the name of SARS, is a public health issue too.

I have heard and read countless stories of police brutality over the years. Some heart-wrenching, like the family whose son was taken away by SARS and asked to pay N3million as bail (the father had to sell his land), after which they were directed to a shallow stream in the bush where many dead bodies lay and told to ‘look among the bodies to find their son’. Dear God in heaven!

Some stories however, are outrightly funny. Imagine a police officer stopping my friend, a caterer, as she was transporting food to a wedding venue, and upon sighting the cooler of Jollof Rice in the back seat, bullied her until she agreed to pour him and his colleagues 5 plates! What the hell was she supposed to tell the people who paid for the 100 plates of rice??

How then, is police brutality linked to public health? In some ways, it is a simple and obvious argument. Public health is about a population being healthy. When people experience police brutality, they become unhealthy. But in order to understand all the ways in which police brutality truly is a threat to public health, we need to dig into the evidence. How exactly does police brutality affect public health? Why does it matter? And what does this framing mean for the way we address the problem?

The most direct connection between police violence and public health is the fact that police violence kills people. And perhaps the clearest indication out there why we don’t regard police violence as a public health issue is the fact that our government doesn’t even keep track of the number of people the police kill every year. Instead, we rely on incomplete compilations of data from media outlets and activist organisations. For example, according to unconfirmed reports, it is reported that deaths from Police brutality alone are more than the number of deaths by COVID-19 in Nigeria.

“Police brutality affects public health because it affects an indicator of population health, which is life expectancy,” Sirry Alang, Ph.D., associate professor of sociology and health, medicine, and society, and founding co-director of the Institute of Critical Race and Ethnic Studies at Lehigh University reports. “It causes death, reduces life expectancy, and increases the death rates for particular populations.”

Police brutality, however, is about much more than the incidents of police killing people; it’s also about the violence that occurs, the hostile engagements, the way people are treated when they’re stopped, arrested or incarcerated. For every person who dies at the hands of law enforcement, you can be sure that many more are hurt badly enough to go to the hospital.

To be completely fair, police brutality is a worldwide phenomenon. Just a few months ago, the US was engulfed in another round of protests following the brutal killing of George Floyd by policemen. A study published in JAMA Surgery in 2017 found that there are on average 51,000 emergency room visits annually by people injured by law enforcement (based on data from 2006–2012) in the United States. According to more recent data collected by the Center for Disease Control (CDC), there were  estimated 85,075 emergency room visits for nonfatal injuries resulting from legal intervention in 2018, which include not only the police but also other law enforcement agents and on-duty military. The thought running through my mind as I read the figures was: ‘Take the number and raise it to the power of 10; maybe that might come close to our Nigerian number. Keep in mind that the injuries that do not result in a visit to the A&E are not included in these statistics. All those over-the-counter pain medication and the numerous wound dressings that are given to victims of the famous ‘frog jump’ punishment meted out by uniformed personnel are all not accounted for.

Additionally, Police brutality impacts mental health above and beyond the actual incidents of it. It is not just when an incident of police violence happens; it is the constant anticipation that it could happen to you or someone you know. The interminable uncertainty of the looming threat of police brutality can take severe psychological tolls on the people who are most vulnerable to it. In this case of the Nigerian SARS, it is the young people in fancy cars, wearing dreadlocks and tattoos or moving about at night. Imagine getting up everyday and having to be afraid of leaving your house because you could be harmed or killed by someone that’s supposed to be protecting you?

So, what do you think? Is Police Brutality the new coronavirus? You tell me.