The Other End of The Cuffs

Nigeria. I grew up in a land of diverse cultures, ethnicities, and backgrounds. For years now my country has been termed a developing nation, but the harsh reality is that it is a third world country with corrupt leadership. This only brought about chaos —from the tossing of brittle bottles to the harshness of the armed forces and the hijack of lives and property. Corruption is the flame that burned us and the fire that engulfed us all.

It was only and always the leaders, of course —who else would it be? If not for bad leadership, our country would be bliss. In my mind, there were three reasons our economy always fell short. First, it was our leaders. Then Boko Haram —terrorists who dwelled in the savannahs and northern regions. But the last was the silent poison. The Yahoo boys. This group didn’t only bring direct harm to the people by ripping people off their hard-earned cash; they damaged the nation’s reputation worldwide, all for flashy lifestyles; chains, multiple girlfriends and gang banging. 

The closest I ever came to one was the house eight streets from ours, a white villa, furnished with green aesthetics. I barely saw him since I attended a boarding school, however, my neighbor’s daughter, Vicky, had a crush on him. That was how I got to know him. His name was Godswill Ezechi. His complexion shone like newly made corn flour. He was about 5ft 3.  Vicky always visited me with tales about his fraudulent escapades. Sometimes she borrowed my shoes and asked me for outfit recommendations to impress him. Barely one month into their relation, I was shocked one afternoon to see Vicky’s mother running towards me in daylight, panic-stricken. 

“Naya, they have arrested my baby ooh!” she lamented as she flung her hands in the air.

Turned out that Vicky had thought it a good idea to visit Godswill on one of his cash-out days. Unknown to her, the police had been tipped and also invited themselves. They broke into the room, rounded up Godswill and then, with a gun pointed to her head, demanded she produced the money he was hiding. She knew where it was. She led them, almost pissing herself in the process, to his secret safe in the room, pulled out a Ghana-must-go bag filled with hard currency, and handed it over. She spent two days in the cell, while Godswill was released after greasing some palms. Their relationship ended after that.

When I returned to school after that holiday ended, the Yahoo trend was all everyone spoke of. We heard of the government’s attempt to curb “419” activities —a panel known as SARS. Unfortunately, just like any other panel set up by the government, this one was also messed up. Any young individual found in a flashy car, a huge mansion, an expensive cellphone, or even designer clothes was arrested with immediate effect. Nigerians were not happy with this, as people from rich backgrounds or self-made millionaires with legit money were no longer safe at all. So they took it upon themselves to start a peaceful protest themed END SARS.

It started peacefully for the first few days until it became  popular and prevailed in the country’s most populated states. During this period, my seatmate Aliyah, who was a devout Muslim, confided in me during the morning assembly while the headlines were read.

“I had a dream.” She went ahead to tell me what she dreamt: the floor was smeared with blood and the gates around her were burning. She was trapped, and there were dead bodies on the floor. Aliyah was an Imam’s daughter, but I was a Christian. Of course, there was no way I could believe her. I nodded it off.

“Pray to Allah, maybe he’ll save us all,” I hinted with underlying sarcasm. I paid zero heed to anything that was not of the Christian faith.

Two days later, Aliyah herself came to inform me about the shutdown imposed on the school. When she walked in, I could barely tell it was her. I could only recognize her dainty white hijab and small but plump stature. My eyes were blurry from a fever; my head was heavy with a migraine. I was on the clinic bed with an IV above me.

“Naya,” she called, sitting down beside me. Cold fingers checked my pulse and then rested on my forehead.

“Are you hungry? I brought Tuwo Shinkafa.”

I shook my head in refusal but she insisted. Moments later, I was sitting on the bed with three pillows for support, and a mouthful of snails. The food was as tasty as its aroma, served with spicy Miyan Gedan (groundnut soup). It melted in my mouth.

“We are going home oh! Mrs. Maduka announced during assembly.” She paused to feed me a large ball of tuwo. “She mentioned something like insecurity abi chaos. I wasn’t listening, but you remember that End SARS—na wetin cause am.”

I shook my head in disbelief. The clinic was at the other end of the school premises and I had heard gunshots last night.

“Why would a peaceful protest cause a riot?” I asked, reaching for the cold water bottle in her bag.

“I no know for una country ooh. I don call my papa sharp sharp. Na today I go reach house.” She declared in pidgin, which was prohibited in school.

She left as soon as I was done eating to pack up.

Hours went by; cars kept coming in and out of the premises. Soon the school was quiet like a deserted land. I kept trying to reach my dad on the phone but he didn’t pick up. I became paranoid. The principal sent an SMS to all our parents to come get us ASAP. After plenty of failed attempts, the matron got a text back saying no one was around to come get me: my mum was on a business trip and my dad was busy with his booked appointments. A novel and occasional warm meals kept me light-headed. There were no friends to visit anymore. The matron and I kept each other’s company and she humored me.

On Wednesday, 20th of October, my father finally arrived. The open shootings had gotten so bad that even my school was no longer a safe zone, he said. I dressed in my neatest pinafore and brushed my hair in his car. We drove off almost immediately because the roads were dreadfully unsafe.

“We’re not getting your usual this time around,” he mentioned when we passed The Place. I sighed in disbelief because I hadn’t even eaten that noon and there wasn’t even a car in sight. The restaurant was shut. A busy eatery like this doesn’t close in broad daylight. This could only mean the situation was serious.

My father kept the windows locked and the air conditioner was at its peak, yet the old man was still sweating. My father, a contractor, didn’t wear suits and was always found in casual t-shirts and loose trousers. Sweating was out of the question—was he nervous? My eyes caught something out of the ordinary, thick smoke! We were navigating Igando Expressway and the police station was on fire. A man up front dressed in a tank top and overalls motioned for us to stop, waving his hands vigorously, a leafy branch in his right hand.

“Where are you headed? This road is blocked,” he thundered. My father had to smoothly talk his way out of this dilemma.

My eyes felt heavy and before I knew it they zoned out of their conversation. My stomach churned and ached from lack of food as well as anxiety. The hairs on my back stood on end. Everything felt so wrong. There were no humorous jokes during this particular drive; his mind was just on the road and our surroundings, and I was barely up to date on the reason for this insecurity.

“Oya, go,” the man upfront declared. He moved aside and in his stead, a leafy branch hung at our windscreen. It was a symbol that we were on their side. They were the friendly protesters, Father later explained. We continued our journey back home in extreme silence, broken occasionally by the rumbling of my tummy.

“Hold on, Nnem, we will soon reach house.” His accent was thick from the recent conversation in which he was forced to ditch his Queen’s English for his mother tongue. As we passed the scene, I felt extremely uneasy as I had never witnessed any state of endangerment face to face. My throat felt very tight; I had drained the bottle I now held tightly.

My father then took the typical Christian approach and broke into speaking in unknown tongues while I continued to recite the Bible verses in my head. We didn’t need a soothsayer to be informed that we were nearing impending doom.

We met several block roads and crossroads, but Dad was pretty much one with the road. The journey back home that normally took four hours now felt like it would never end. We had spent over five hours and the threads of time spun even faster, yet felt so slow. Finally, we approached the Lekki-Epe toll gates. The house was just a stone’s throw away.

From nowhere, the man whose car was ahead of us by two vehicles ran back, vehicle abandoned, barefooted. He ran past us, then retraced his steps and knocked hurriedly at the glass windows.

“Run!” he mouthed, throwing his arms about. I noticed his side was bleeding profusely, his hand securing the wound from further blood loss. Before I could blink, a bullet passed through his head, loud enough for me to notice.

“Jesus!” I screamed as I ducked in panic. Father had noticed and was reversing at full speed, all the while speaking in tongues. It all happened in a frenzy but the scene didn’t leave my mind’s eye. The bullet tore through his skull, and the pool of blood poured out as his eyes numbed, his gaze lifeless before he fell like a tree that was chopped down.

Fear gripped me. I was too young to die, and my father who sat in the most vulnerable position had been diagnosed with high blood pressure. When we finally reversed successfully amidst stray bullets, I summoned the courage to look back and saw the gates were ablaze. Voices sang the national anthem as death cries rang in the air.

We had to take a different route home. When we finally arrived, we were both drenched in sweat and hungry—very thirsty too. My mother flung herself at us when we got home, her eyes red from worrying and crying. It was past midnight and my siblings’ meal, of which I had two servings, was waiting. My fever went down after a cold shower, probably thanks to the adrenaline pumping in my veins.

It was not until I watched the headlines that I realized the situation was much deeper than I thought. The next day, it was announced that the CCTV cameras at the toll gate were removed, electricity supply was turned off. The government had warned even advertisers to get off work early, so there was no prior warning. Even network providers had a supply shortage, specifically MTN and Airtel. The gates were shut and truckloads of military officers appeared. They said anyone who sang the national anthem showed allegiance to the nation and would be spared.

The protestors sang and waved the flags they held. Yet, they were shot at by the armed men. The personnel were later discovered to be ex-officials from the SARS panel. I had never seen anything like that in the decade and four years that I existed. My mother, however, noted the fact that the military was brutal during its regime and rule. The Mopols were quite brutal to date, as this was their habit—not just to individuals that crossed their path, but now to the masses.

She also clarified that it was orchestrated by the government. It was their under-the-radar way of doing things. The days later, headlines read:

A distressing incident of police brutality reverberated beyond its immediate social impact, casting a shadow on Nigeria’s economy and international relations. The eruption of protests and civil unrest following the incident sent ripples through the economy, disrupting business activities, trade, and investments.

Additionally, the incident and subsequent unrest had repercussions on immigration rates. Fearing the escalating tensions and seeking safer environments, some individuals sought to emigrate or explore opportunities abroad, leading to a temporary increase in outward migration from Nigeria. Conversely, stricter immigration policies or concerns about instability might have also influenced foreign nationals’ decisions to reconsider investments or employment opportunities within the country.

Internationally, the incident strained Nigeria’s interactions with other countries. Diplomatic relations might have been affected due to concerns over human rights violations and the government’s handling of the situation. This could have led to increased scrutiny and diplomatic pressures from foreign governments and international organizations, impacting trade agreements, aid packages, and diplomatic engagements. The incident likely prompted a reassessment of Nigeria’s standing on the global stage, prompting efforts to repair diplomatic ties and restore confidence in the nation’s commitment to upholding human rights and ensuring justice.

Ultimately, the reverberations of the incident of police brutality extended far beyond its immediate social impact, influencing Nigeria’s economic stability, immigration patterns, and diplomatic relationships with other nations. The need for internal reform and the restoration of trust both domestically and internationally became pressing priorities for Nigeria’s government in the aftermath of these events.

It was then I remembered Aliyah’s vision. It wasn’t just the government that wrecked us, we wrecked ourselves even more. Injustice was a double-edged sword ripping at both ends: the ones that held it, both the government and the people. It was obvious during the earlier lockdown when palliatives became personal properties.