"Why are you smiling?" they asked. "Is prison life good for you?"
Sometimes we would let out a smile but deep inside we were suffering because our freedom had been taken away. I had a lot of anger inside and I wanted to take it out on society and on the Singaporean government; I hated all these bastards who were supposed to uphold the law but instead took matters on a personal level and handed me all the maximum punishments that I could possibly get. If I were a terrorist, I would have bombed every fucking building in Singapore, but I'm not a terrorist, so I just sat there with my anger and disappeared from the scene. I first went to prison in 1995, then once more in 1998 and was barely out one year before landing in prison again and again and again. It was like being away for a holiday: a ten-year holiday.
Every time they locked me up, I thought, "Fuck, what am I doing? I know that there is something wrong with what I'm doing".
I'd sit down and think at length: "I'm here because of my gambling".
I was serving a five-year sentence for trying to obtain money in the shortest, easiest way in order to gamble. I wasn't even planning to fix matches; I wanted to share the money from the credit cards with my friends to punt bets. Stupid fucker.
For six months my girlfriend came to visit me then she decided to go her way. I was in love with her but prison killed our relationship. My father visited me just once. He had already given up hope on me a long time before. He knew that I was a match-fixer since my first conviction, when he was taken to the CPIB station in my stead. I never explained it to him directly but he knew what I was doing. It's not easy for me to change and you don't just sit in front of your father and say: "You know, I'm doing this, I'm doing that..."
Our relationship was pretty detached; I mean, the father and son relationship was intact but we were not very close anymore. On the day of his visit, as I walked down the corridor to see him, I spotted a familiar face among the other convicts.
"Fuck", I thought, "I've already seen that face. Who could it be?"
Then I remembered; it was a friend of my father's, a lawyer. He was in my same prison but in a different hall. I recognized his face because I had gone to his office with my dad when I was a young boy.
When I sat in front of my father, I asked him: "Is your friend in this prison?"
"Yes, yes", he whispered, "this guy, you know, misused some of his client's money or something like that. How are you doing?"
"OK", I answered, "everything is fine".
We had a regular conversation, as if nothing had happened. After that day, my father stopped visiting me.
My sisters also came to see me every once in a while; they would usually drop by at New Year's just to say 'hello'.
My mother was a regular for the first few months then I dissuaded her.
"Don't visit me", I told her, "don't come and see me. Or just come once every six months or so. I'm OK; I'm fine; nobody's tying me up and lashing me; they give me food three times a day, I read, I kill time, just don't worry about me".
When my mother visited me in prison she brought news from home; good and bad. But I didn't want to know what was going on outside because it influenced my mindset. I wanted to live within the prison's society, not outside; when my mind traveled outside I was affected. If something bad happened in my family, if someone got sick or if my brother was creating trouble with my mother... What could I do? It was best that I didn't go there, that my mind didn't travel that far.
CHAPTER V
A frog in the well
In May 2006 I was set to be released from prison. A couple of weeks before they set you free, the prison sends your clothes to the laundry to be washed. They don't iron them of course, they just wash them and prepare them for you to pick them up on your way out. Your family is allowed to bring you new clothes as well or, if you want to look fancy, you can choose to wear a prison T-shirt. As your release date draws near, you are shifted to another hall where they try to re-integrate you into society by letting you watch the news, read uncensored newspapers and things like that. There is even a job interview set up for you, but the employment offers that they propose pay pathetic salaries; barely enough to make ends meet.
"Fuck you. Shove your fucking job where the sun doesn't shine", I told them.
There is a single exit from the prison and all those who are released have to pass through it one by one. Then, as they come out into the sunlight, there are usually people waiting for them outside; families expecting their loved ones. My mother asked me if she could come or send someone to pick me up.
"You don't need to come", I told her. "I'll find my own way home".
I was no longer a child and I didn't need to be picked up by anybody; I just wanted to breathe the fresh air and allow my mind to relax. As I finally stepped out of the prison door and my eyesight slowly adjusted to the blinding daylight, I saw my brother standing in front of me smiling. The next thing I saw was Mega standing right beside him.
"Why the fuck is this guy here?" I thought. "I don't want to see anybody".
I hated my old friends and acquaintances. They were the ones responsible for my prison sentences; or at least that's what I allowed my mind to think.
Mega hadn't changed a bit: tall, skinny, he wore a mustache and thick glasses. I was not very close to Mega although I had known him since I was 21 years old, when we played football together in Ang Mo Kio. I knew that Mega was a pathological gambler. As a matter of fact, this mother-fucker was the worst gambler of them all. I punted only on football while Mega would wager on anything: 4Ds, Toto, horse racing, you name it. I reckoned that my brother had brought him along solely because Mega was working for the town council at the time and had a car at his disposal. Although I longed to remain alone, I gave in and accepted the free ride home.
After almost four years inside, freedom felt more precious and I just wanted to lie low for a while and keep out of trouble's way. I don't smoke and I don't drink so my daily expenses were less than five Singapore dollars; the cost of a cup of coffee and a newspaper. I would get my coffee and paper and sit at the coffee shop across the street from my home where I spent my time thinking about what I could do with my life. Mega lived in my same neighborhood, Woodlands, one or two kilometers away from my home. He worked as a cleaning supervisor or something of the sort at the town council, which was located right next to the coffee shop where I spent my time. His was a good job because it was very flexible and left him with a lot of free time in his hands. Mega would often bump into me at the coffee shop, sit at my table and try to start a conversation just to kill time; we would then linger lazily for hours on end, having coffee and chatting. Mega gave me a couple of months' break, then he began talking business.
"Hey Wilson", he whispered, "I'm talking to these guys..."
"Fuck. Here we go again", I sighed.
Mega told me that he had approached some players from a newly formed Singapore club called Sporting Afrique that played in the S-League, the top Singaporean football league. Singapore allowed foreigners and foreign teams to participate in the local league to add more glamour to the show. In 2006, a businessman called Colin Chee was authorized by the Singaporean FA to field a team of African players. Chee decided to call it Sporting Afrique.
The boys playing for Sporting Afrique were all housed in a bungalow in Sembawang and were paid roughly 100 dollars per month. How can one survive on 100 dollars per month in Singapore? They were like modern-day slaves. Mega was in touch with a Nigerian midfielder who played for Sporting Afrique and who was on friendly terms with the rest of the players in the team. One afternoon Mega invited me to the stadium to watch one of their matches.
"Wilson", he asked, "what do you think is the logical solution to win money with this team?"
After watching part of the match, I pointed to two of the Sporting Afrique players on the pitch.
"You see those two guys?" I told Mega. "Those are the two main players in the team. The best thing you can do is get a hold of them two. If you can't
get those two guys, then you won't be able to lose and your bets will be fucked".
The players were Obi and Phil; they were Sporting Afrique's engine, the two center-backs. If they didn't function then their team would not perform.
A few days passed and Mega managed to contact Phil, then came back to me.
"I'm going to meet Phil", he said. "Do you want to come along?"
I will fix any day, any time; I was just waiting for the right opportunity but I was also trying my level best not to do it in Singapore. Only at that time I had nothing, just my savings from prison, which amounted roughly to five hundred dollars. I had no influence on the outside and no other way to make money so I agreed to attend the meeting with Mega.
"I'll tell you what", I said, "I will come along but I will not get directly involved. I will ride in the car with you but I won't sit at the same table; I'll sit elsewhere".
"OK. Let's go then", said Mega.
We met Phil in a coffee shop; Mega was doing the talking while I sat a few meters away. Once he had finished speaking to Phil, Mega came over to my table and sat down.
"Phil seems agreeable", he said, "what next?"
"Ask him to take a red card and fuck up the match", I suggested.
Phil was very excited about doing business with Mega because he was making one hundred dollars per month while Mega was offering him six to seven thousand dollars per match. Phil contacted the other player that I had singled out during the game, Obi, who also agreed to come on board with us. Mega asked Phil to take a red card, as I had recommended, to facilitate Sporting Afrique's defeat in their following match. With Phil and Obi on our side, the match played out as we had expected and, with just a couple of minutes left to play, our bet was won even without the aid of a red card. Then, at the 89th minute, Phil was sanctioned for a silly foul and sent out.
"What the fuck is he thinking?" I asked Mega, who was sitting beside me in the stands. "A red card at the 89th minute when the result is already accomplished?"
After the first successful match, Mega continued to do business with Sporting Afrique and would always ask for my advice on how to proceed with the matches. I was lending a helping hand but was also trying to make some money on the side by finding a few dollars to bet on the games together with Mega. There were no live bets for these matches back then so we gambled at the Singapore Pools. It was not a very lucrative business; not all the matches were fruitful and the odds offered by the Singapore Pools were not so hot. I remember a match in which Sporting Afrique was supposed to lose by 1-0. Their loss was paying 2 dollars and 20 cents. This meant that if you bet ten thousand dollars, you would win 22 thousand. It was a 12 thousand dollar profit from which we had to deduct the money for Phil and Obi. We fixed four or five Sporting Afrique matches and each time Mega and I would watch the game together from the stands.
As the season progressed, Sporting Afrique was set to play against the Tampines Rovers, another Singapore club. We told the Sporting Afrique players to play 100 percent and lock the match because Tampines was giving 1.5. I don't know why, but Phil took a red card early in the game and was sent off. When we asked the mother-fucker to take a red card, he did so at the 89th minute, when there was no need to, then, when we asked him to play, the fucker took a red card: we lost our bet and our money.
The real problem with Africans is that you cannot put them together and talk business to them. They'll each have something to say, then they'll discuss it with the others. At that time I still couldn't quite understand how they functioned. Phil agreed to take yet another red card in the following match but discussed his effort with a good friend of his who immediately went to the club's offices and filed a report against him.
"Somebody offered Phil money last night to lose the match", read the report.
Phil was picked up by the CPIB and questioned.
"Two guys approached me", he told the officers, "they offered me seven thousand dollars to take a red card and I said 'no'".
The CPIB traced the last call made to Phil's mobile phone and came up with Mega's number; they picked Mega up and put him face to face with Phil.
"Is this the guy who offered you money?" they asked Phil.
"No, this is a friend of mine", Phil didn't want to land us into trouble. "I cannot remember the guy's face because I was sleepy when he came up to me".
Thank God, otherwise Mega would have been done for and so would I. Phil was clever and had already received his cut so he did not want to implicate anybody. There were no grounds on which to charge Mega but the CPIB kept him in their sights for investigating purposes. He was free to go but had to renew his bail every two weeks.
As the season was coming to an end, Sporting Afrique was set to play away against a Japanese team, Albirex Niigata FC, another foreign guest formation in the S-League. Mega and I decided to invest most of our savings on the match.
"First half, draw", we told Phil and Obi. "Second half, concede one goal".
Easy.
But when the match kicked off, it looked as if Obi was playing a regular game; he didn't give a fuck about our deal and wasn't working to concede the goal we needed. Phil, on the other hand, was ready to capitulate in his head, but he didn't know how to get his feet to act accordingly. In the 92nd minute, the Japanese team finally scored, 1-0, and we managed to win our bet. I was enraged with Obi; I assumed that my telephone was being tapped because Mega was under investigation and had made frequent calls to my mobile. Still, I could not resist the temptation of letting Obi know that I was pissed off; I called Phil.
"Phil", I told him, "you tell this mother-fucker Obi that I'm not going to give him five, I'm only going to give him two".
Just 'five' and 'two', I said.
"This is between you and him", said Phil, who spoke very little English.
The CPIB was listening in on the call so they picked Phil up again and brought him back to their offices.
"What were you supposed to get from Wilson?" they asked Phil. "Two and five what?"
"I don't know", he replied. "You ask Wilson. This is between Wilson and Obi".
"So why did he call you?"
"I don't know".
The CPIB then proceeded to pick up Obi to question him about the call.
"I don't know", said Obi. "Wilson called Phil, not me. You ask Wilson. It's between them".
Next, they persuaded Obi to call me. I was driving when my mobile phone rang. Obi wasn't supposed to ring me up; I usually called him. I had phoned him two or three times earlier that day but he hadn't answered my calls. Now, all of a sudden, his name was flashing insistently on my mobile's display.
"Obi? Why is he calling me? Fuck, this could be a tapped conversation", I thought as I answered the call.
"Oh, Obi, how can I help you?"
"Hey", said Obi, "you're supposed to find me a club".
"Fuck, Obi", I said. "I have my own problems, you understand. I cannot get you a club right now but I have spoken to a club in India about you. You just bear with me for one or two months".
"But I need a club now".
"Obi, if you can bear with me, you bear. If you cannot, then fuck off. OK?"
I hung up.
The next day, as I drove through town, I noticed a car tailgating mine. I didn't think much of it and there wasn't anything that I could do about it. Then, at about six o'clock on the following morning, the CPIB came to my home and enclosed the premises. Their field officers had probably followed my every move for days because of my past conviction for escaping police custody; in the CPIB's eyes I was ranked differently from Obi and Phil. They picked me up and escorted me to their offices. They did not question me at first, they just locked me up. About 28 hours later I was taken into one of the interrogation rooms that were lined up in the hallway. The officer accompanying me walked out of the room and locked the door behind him, leaving me alone. The room was bare but for a table, a chair and a small see-through window. About an hour later, another officer walked in and sat down in f
ront of me.
"What do you know about Obi, Phil and Mega?" he asked.
"What are you talking about?" I replied. "I'm just trying to help players get clubs to play in".
"What are you afraid of?" he reassured me. "If you were not involved, you don't have to admit to anything that you didn't do".
My mouth remained sealed. The officer gave up and walked out of the room and locked the door behind him again. After a short while, another officer came in and sat down.
"You know", he said, "Obi is already talking. He's saying everything about you. We already have enough evidence to charge you so you should really speak up".
They were playing their little mind games with me. Eventually, although they were not allowed to touch me, they were going to try to break me psychologically. The officer began raising his voice and then slammed his fists violently on the table, trying to intimidate me, but, this time around, I stuck to the golden rule: never admit.
"I'm just a football agent", I was unshakable. "I don't know what you're talking about".
Finally, the CPIB officer laughed.
"Fuck", he conceded, "you are good".
Then he moved closer and said: "Wilson, why are you giving us such a hard time? This is the last warning that we give you: leave Singapore alone. Go and fix your matches elsewhere and we will not come after you".
The CPIB had so much difficulty pinning the triangle between Phil, Obi and myself that we were eventually each given a warning and told to leave. Had I been convicted, I would have looked at ten years of corrective training; no remission for a third-time offender. If you go in three times for the same crime, you're fucked. Fortunately, I had made it a point to always run through the drill and brief the players before I did any business with them.
"If you get caught", I instructed them, "they will lock you up for 48 hours. They will walk in and out of the room and they will ask questions. Don't talk. If you talk, you will never be able to play football again for the rest of your life. First, the policemen will reassure you, then they will tell you that the others are talking, but, after 48 hours, if you haven't admitted to your guilt, they'll have to release you. You can be 100 percent sure that I am not talking. They will say that I am but on my mother's grave I tell you: I will never talk. Even if they put a gun to my head, I will never talk; so you don't worry and keep your mouth shut. Never admit to anything".
Kelong Kings: Confessions of the world's most prolific match-fixer Page 13