I watch the embers of the flame slowly die down. I find I don’t care for the burning sensation I feel as the candle wax drips onto my skin. It is incomparable to the pain I feel inside. I stare transfixed until tears fill my eyes. I shrug it off. After all, men don’t cry.
You may say you understand, but you lie. You do not, unless you have walked in my shoes. Not literally of course, because I have not been able to walk for three years now.
The land they say is the giant of Africa has failed me. And so many others. But unlike me, it has snuffed the life out of so many.
Going to the United Kingdom to do my Masters had been nothing but a dream come true! I had a vision for Nigeria, one I passionately penned down in my Statement of Purpose during the application process. I was eager to bring my dreams to fruition coming back to the country after my program ended, armed with the knowledge I was sure would make a difference.
On that fateful day, four months after I came back, Timi and I were stopped in my car along Bama Road by members of the SARS unit. We were both jamming to cool music as we drove to get refreshments for his birthday party, which was to hold later that night. They asked us for the car papers, which we handed over before it turned into a request for phones and password.
I didn’t understand. I had read about the atrocities this unit of police committed but had never experienced any personally. What right did they have to ask for the password of my bank app? The mistake I made was asking why they needed my password.
The earthy stench of marijuana was almost overpowering as three of them came close to me. And hell turned loose.
Timi had up to that point, been surreptitiously recording the incident. One of them noticed and with a growl, reached for his phone. Timi resisted, and before I could make a move, my ears rang as a gunshot went off.
When I opened my eyes, Timi was sitting, with his head in an unnatural position. I felt the horror settle on me as I saw blood ooze out from his forehead.
Two more gunshots rang out, and I blacked out. Maybe that was my saving grace as they probably thought I was dead. Little did they know that watching your best friend die would suck the life out of you!
I was lucky, but the bullet pulled out of me damaged my spinal cord, and I was to be confined to a wheelchair for life.
“We’re all we have
We’ll defend our land
We believe in Nigeria
And the promise she holds
And that one day, we’ll shine like the sun.”
The chants from the crowd keep increasing in tempo, bringing me out of the trip down memory lane. I look up, and for the first time, things didn’t feel completely hopeless.
At one time when life was bleak, I hated Timi Dakolo’s Great Nation because it felt like mockery. So, I never uttered or sang the words of the song. Now, it resonates differently, and I can feel the fight slowly seep in.
Over the past week, I have seen unity and humanity being exhibited in different dimensions. Strangers compassionate without care about religion, ethnicity, or background. People coming together to fight for a cause, one I had never believed would happen in my lifetime.
I have seen an organization in ways never thought possible. More importantly, I have seen humanity being reborn with everyone standing up for anyone victimized, even most slightly.
In light of this unity, I have found my voice.
I know I have to be brave for the victims of police brutality. To share my story and call the names of the officers responsible for the dreaded night I begged for my life to be over. To stay strong to ensure that justice was duly served.
For Jimoh Isiaq. For Ayomide Taiwo. For Sleek. For Peter Ofurum. For Chika Ibeku. For Chibuike Anams. For Ifeoma Abugu. For Kolade Johnson. For Chijioke Iloanya. For Tina Ezekwe, and so many others, too numerous to mention, all cut off in their prime. And for them, we cannot give up until we win the war against police brutality in Nigeria.
I smile and hold hands with other protesters at the Candlelight Procession, singing “Great Nation” at the top of my voice. Things are looking better, and maybe … just maybe, we will break down norms and practices that have held us caged, one protest at a time.
No more will we cower. The world will see that the youths have awoken from their slumber. We are finally breaking free to build a New Nigeria.
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Love,
Diane.
