And Always Remember Them

(First written on 20 November, 2022, two years after the Lekki Toll Gate Massacre)

I always struggle when I try to write about #ENDSARS. The words are there, the memory is there, but the trauma is also there and the trauma takes the form of thick harmattan mist, fogging up everything.

But, still, we remember. We have to. It is the forgotten who are truly dead. When we remember, life goes on. It may not do so in the way we want, but it goes on. It may not do so in forms we are used to, but life goes on.

We also remember the living.

We remember the first people. The small pockets of rebellion forming around the governor’s office in Alausa, Ikeja. The ones who started the fight against the establishment and their dogs of war. We remember them sleeping in the open air, with mosquitoes and bugs using them for midnight snacks. The first people. The ones who, when the rest of us were still thinking of sharpening our swords, were already battling the enemy at his gates.

We remember them.

We remember the ones who came next. All of us. The cavalry. The ones who turned the wind into a whirlwind. The ones who caught the fever later, but once they caught it, got so consumed by the movement that they burned to the very end. They showed up every day. They left their businesses and careers and their normal lives to fight for their right to be young people, to be hustlers, dreamers, to be whatever they were. To be young people in Nigeria.

We remember them.

We remember the older people. The ones who came out for their children and nephews and nieces. The ones who closed their offices and allowed their employees to go fight for their right to live, to thrive. The ones who had past questions from fighting military dictators and came to show us the art of war. The ones who stayed behind the scenes, donating money, using their influence to free arrested protesters, to treat the wounded, to support the protests. The ones who, long after the last gunshot had roared through the night of October 20, 2020, stayed fighting for justice for the victims.

We remember them.

We remember Nigerians abroad. We remember them lending their voices, we remember their overwhelming financial support. We are reminded that in times like this, no matter how far away you run, home never leaves you. Home never leaves you.

We remember them.

We remember the spark plugs of the protests. The young Nigerians harassed, extorted, shot, killed by corrupt SARS officials. Their stories piling on each other for months, for years, till these stories became bombs of outrage exploding in every major city in Nigeria. Tiamiyu Kazeem. Kolade Johnson. Ifeoma Abugu. Anita Akapson. Linda Igwetu. Chijioke Iloanya. So many names.

We remember them.

We remember when the crackdowns started. The killings before Lekki. We remember Jimoh Isiaq, a little boy, someone’s little boy, pictured standing far from the protesters, standing at what looked like a safe distance, just watching. But in Nigeria, no matter where you stand, you are never safe. Jimoh was killed when trigger-happy policemen started shooting at unarmed protesters.

We remember the pictures of the driver shot by the police at Yaba. He died with his hands in his pockets. He was not part of the protests; he was just someone’s father going about his job, waiting for traffic to clear so he could go his way. He died because Nigeria happens to everyone. Because we are all involved no matter where we are standing.