Yesterday, I shared how I fell ill in the middle of the storm and how I struggled to save both myself and Oceanic Bank. Today, I want to tell you what happened that night at Kirikiri Prison, and how I fled to my village for safety.
As I sat reflecting on all I had achieved, a sudden commotion broke the silence. It was close to midnight. There was tension in the air. The female commandant of the prison had arrived. I watched as warders stood stiff, bracing for her wrath.
She marched up to our vehicle, her voice sharp: “Sister, what are you doing here?”
To my shock, she was the sister of my cardiologist – the very doctor who had been treating me since the CBN Governor began his legal siege. She quickly calmed down when her sister explained that I’d been denied proper care all day despite being on high doses of blood thinners. It was almost midnight and I hadn’t rested since 9 a.m. The judge had already ordered I be taken back to the hospital, yet they were still holding me.
The commandant promised to fast-track my release. Fifteen minutes later, she returned to say the documents were ready, but her superior had to see them first.
While we waited, the next-in-command approached me, insisting I follow her into the prison reception to sign some papers. I refused. I asked that the documents be brought to me in the car. She took offence, insisting I come in myself. I stood my ground. I told her I’d wait until the commandant returned — and I would only sign anything in the presence of my cardiologist.
When the commandant came back, she spoke in Igbo to my doctor, who then reassured me. I trusted her, so I followed her inside.
No sooner had I stepped in than an officer came from behind with a pair of handcuffs. I froze. I stopped signing immediately. Panic took over — I feared they were about to throw me into the female wing of Kirikiri Prison.
Again, my cardiologist intervened, speaking urgently in Igbo. The commandant signaled the officer to stand down. Eventually, we left the prison around 1:30 a.m. and returned to the hospital.
Throughout all this, I made sure my husband in Maryland remained unaware of the storm in Lagos. He was already upset that I left without telling him, but I told my eldest daughter to keep everything from him. I called him from time to time to reassure him I was fine.
Meanwhile, the media had become a weapon. The CBN Governor was running a full-scale propaganda campaign against me. He controlled the press, silencing anyone who dared defend us. Some people believed he was targeting southern banks while leaving weaker northern banks untouched. There were even whispers that he hadn’t initiated a single bank project in the North.
At Oceanic, we had been working on a major project with a northern client — the Kano Economic City. We had already sponsored a team to Dubai — the promoter, an architect, a lawyer, and our Executive Director — to draw up the masterplan. The Kano State Governor supported us fully and assured us that the President would lay the foundation.
But something strange happened. On the day of the ceremony, we waited all day for the President. They kept telling us he was on his way… but by evening, an apology came — he wouldn’t be attending, and the event would be rescheduled.
That reschedule never happened.
When the CBN Governor’s crackdown began, the Kano businessman ran to him for help. He promised to take over the project. We never heard about the Kano Economic City again.
“Go Home,” My Grandfather Always Said
As pressure mounted, many urged the CBN Governor to give us a fair chance. But I was warned: he was determined to imprison me. His lawyers already had the charges prepared.
My grandfather always said, “If you’re under attack, go home.” I took his advice and went to my village.
When I got there, arrangements were made for both my pastor and a doctor to attend to me. After prayers, the doctor sedated me so I could finally get some rest.
While I lay recovering, the CBN Governor intensified his hunt. My name was placed on a nationwide “wanted” list. TV stations ran it endlessly. I was to be arrested on sight.
But in the village, I felt safer. Lagos had become too exposed. Rumours had it that Erastus Akingbola had been tipped off and escaped abroad. Since he wasn’t around, all the fire came my way.
Peace didn’t last long. Soon, we heard that search parties were combing Edo and Delta looking for me. My pastor advised that I return to Lagos and face it all. He believed I had nothing to fear — that God would protect me.
But my doctor disagreed. My blood pressure was dangerously high. He warned that any more stress could kill me. I was told to rest before facing what was coming.
I knew I had to go back. But I couldn’t risk travelling by road — there were checkpoints everywhere. One of our customers stepped in and arranged for a private aircraft. By 8:00 a.m., I was back in Lagos.
When I entered my house, the silence was chilling. My security had been removed — a decision by the new Oceanic Bank MD, Mr Aboh. He was a former Executive Director at First Bank. People said he had been in line to become MD of First Bank before Sanusi took over. In fact, Sanusi’s appointment itself was said to have been orchestrated by the then Chairman of First Bank.
As I sat there, I knew this was just the beginning of the fight.
After the EFCC incident, my lawyers got a private security firm to send guards to my house. I used to have four men at the gate, but only two were provided now — and I had to pay them myself. Even one of my drivers was taken away.
One day, a customer visited me. As he was leaving, he handed some money to the guards. They were thrilled. He asked how many of them worked there. One replied, “Four. Two in the day, two at night.”
Concerned that such a large compound only had four men and no relief staff, he asked me how much it cost. I told him it came to about ₦1 million monthly.
Without hesitation, this Muslim customer said he would cover the entire bill every month until I said otherwise.
I was overwhelmed by his kindness.
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How Oceanic Bank Was Shut Down and How I Ended Up in Kirikiri Prison – Cecilia Ibru
