Kelong Kings: Confessions of the world's most prolific match-fixer (19 page)

"You're going
from seven to ten years", said Judge Woh on the day he landed
his enhanced sentence.

The prosecutor was
concerned.

"Your honor",
he said, "this section carries a maximum punishment of seven
years".

"This is my
provision, I decide", Judge Woh said and finished off with his
customary belittling, "This is not a drama school and I am not
here to buy your drama".

I remember another
case judged by 'Mad' Woh that caused a public outcry at the time.
There was a young boy with a low IQ who had a tendency to molest
people. He was sentenced to two years in prison and to six strokes of
the cane.

"Your honor",
he pleaded, "can I have my prison term enhanced and be spared
the caning?"

He was trying to
conduct a barter trade but Judge Woh increased his sentence to four
years and kept the strokes.

"I think you
will now be happy", he said. "You wanted an enhanced
sentence and that's what you got".

The boy was
retarded. Why weren't his unalienable rights represented? Why was he
being ridiculed by the court? Judge Woh fucked up his case, but in
Singapore they don't just throw you off the throne like they do in
Europe; we have manners. They knew that he was going senile so they
respectfully sent him off to another office and that was the end of
Judge Woh.

Unfortunately for
Singh, when he appealed, 'Mad' Woh was still solidly at the helm. He
threw Singh's case out and increased his sentence to 20 fucking
years. I think that Singh was about two years older than me and that
he had a son. He will be seeing sunlight again in 2023 and will have
turned into a zombie by then; those who sit 20-over years in prison
start pacing around aimlessly like the walking dead.

While working in the
laundry I got to know some of the guys who worked across the hall in
the X-ray department where they collected mobile phones, newspapers
and other things that people misplaced in their pockets when they
sent their clothes to be washed. Finally, the football results began
flowing in again and I was able to gamble. Manchester Utd vs
Liverpool; we would counter one another.

"I give you
half-ball".

"I'll give you
half-one".

"I give you
one".

We were prisoners so
we tried to gamble within our means; we wanted to see our winnings
immediately so we would fight canteen items. Those of us that worked
in the laundry had bigger allowances than the others: 20 dollars
worth of canteen purchases. We would gamble with these items, not
with money. If you won three dollars, you would make a shopping list
worth three dollars and say: "OK. You can buy me a carton of
milk or some soap".

We would also gamble
on inter-hall basketball matches.

"OK. Who wants
to bet?"

"50 dollars
canteen".

"50 dollars is
too heavy a bet for myself alone, let me ask around if anyone wants
to share".

Sometimes you won,
sometimes you lost; gambling is basically just luck, you know.
W
e
gambled to spend the time because we needed to look forward. In
detention, you need a purpose or else life is aimless; its course
becomes just a senseless routine. While I was in jail I would do my
best to organize events. I would write to the superintendent: "We
should hold an inter-hall basketball tournament and a Sepak Takraw
tournament".

Some of the prison
guards were supportive; there was a sergeant called Jeffrey who would
pitch in his own pocket money to buy prizes for the winners. But the
older officers didn't want to see you smile while you were locked up.

"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.

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.