On Remembrance Days: an EndSars Memorial
Today is the third anniversary of the #EndSars shootings. To be honest, I am struggling to write about it, and I struggle to even think about it. Three years ago, we were out on the streets demanding an end to police brutality. Looking back, the protests were not just about police brutality, it was about seeking change. An end to police brutality for many of us represented an end to the injustice, impunity, and “anyhowness” that permeate so many spaces and sectors in Nigeria. It was a fight for a new Nigeria, hope for better things to come, but it all ended so abruptly and so brutally.
You see I have never been much of a believer in Nigeria. I was never super patriotic. I had as little optimism for the affairs of my country as one could possibly muster. But you see Nigeria is a special one, for even in my pessimism, she managed to still disappoint me and let me down. Sure the end SARS protest was by no means perfect, well we never claimed to be perfect people anyway; we were just young people who wanted (and deserved) to be treated humanely in our own country. The organisation at the protest was a beautiful sight; we volunteered, shared food, cleaned up, and looked out for each other. I can’t lie, seeing young people band together to volunteer in various capacities (feeding, legal, medical, etc.) to work towards a common goal filled me with a little bit of hope for my country. Sometimes I think back and say to myself: “what were we expecting anyway”. For a country that has a track record of eating its own young, we probably placed too much expectations on Nigeria and the Nigerian government.
This time three years ago I had gone out to get some supplies. The protests were still on, but the subtle threats from the authorities had started to become not-so-subtle. They were clearly frustrated that these irritant youth were still on the streets. After all, the government had released statements in the usual fashion promising to listen to and treat our concerns, whilst still arresting young people on the streets. I remember getting a call from my mum informing me about the curfew. I didn’t have access to any news source, so she called me asking me to hurry back. Everywhere started to empty slowly, I walked and walked from the Ikeja mall heading towards Ikeja along, trying to find a bus, or a ride, or a bike, or anything that could take me home. You see my mother has lived and experienced the military government so she does not joke with curfews. She put the fear of God in me and I couldn’t shake the fear. Not even after I arrived home could I shake it. My fears and all however, nothing prepared me for the gruesome events that were to follow later that night. I remember frantically scrolling from Twitter to DJ Switch’s live on Instagram, in various stages of shock and disbelief. They started shooting and the rest I guess is history. I felt the light dim in so many young Nigerian hearts that night. We did not deserve to be shot at for asking for a better country, we did not.
You know the worst thing about being Nigerian? It’s the gaslighting. To be honest, gaslighting is a mild word compared to what the Nigerian state actually does to you. It tramples on your dignity, wrings you through a crusher, buries all the evidence of your hurt and the harm done against you, and asks you to move on like nothing happened. Our people say you can’t beat a child and ask it not to cry. Well, apparently that is just a proverb because we actually beat our people, and not only do we ask them not to cry, but they also get beaten for any attempts to cry or talk about it. And so, every time anyone attempts to memorialise the events of October 20, 2020, the police are out in their finest gear to “prevent disturbances of the peace”. We are asked to reject the evidence of our own eyes and move on like nothing happened. So we are huddle around and say to each other on remembrance days ‘ozoemena’, but we all know deep down that ozo ga eme and we will likely be unable to do anything about it.
I have no answers. On most days, I have no energy to give to the issues of the Nigerian state, on other days I sigh in frustration and wonder who bewitched us. Today, despite all the promises of change and renewed hope, the naira is being exchanged for about 1,100 to a dollar, migrating is getting tougher by the minute, the minimum wage can barely sustain people, and more and more people are falling deeper into poverty. As a collective, we seem to have moved on from the past, but I hope we never forget. To do that will be to ridicule the lives and efforts of the dead. It will be great dishonour.
So three years on, my only hope and prayer is that we never forget.
20.10.2020
