On social media, the tone was radically different: ‘Sixty years of independence and twenty-nine of those spent under military regimes. What really has changed since then? Journalists are still arrested for criticising the government, freedom of speech is curtailed and we’re fed daily propaganda to prop up a failing government. Military authoritarianism garbed in democracy,’ a man wrote on Facebook and others congregated in his comments to applaud him.
October 3rd. A video emerged on social media of a young man being pushed out of a vehicle and shot by armed members of a special police unit. It wasn’t the first time this unit had been accused of abusing its power. In ’99, as medical students, we’d studied cadavers on gurneys in our classrooms, rumoured to be from hospital morgues where the police had abandoned the bodies of their victims, unidentified and lost to their loved ones. We’d scoffed at these tales as works of fiction, until one afternoon, in the middle of an anatomy class, the lecturer had lifted the cloth from the body we were to study and a classmate had run out screaming and crying. The face had been that of his longtime friend, two bullet holes decorated the right side of his chest.
Demonstrations against the Special Anti-Robbery Squad (SARS) had taken place before; there was nothing particularly new there. Each time, the government put out a perfunctory message, claiming a reorganisation, dissolution or ban on the unit’s activities, and each time, they continued their reign of terror uninhibited: picking up young men for owning nice phones and laptops, accusing them of trumped-up criminal activity, disappearing fathers for walking at night and resting gun barrels on sternums for the crime of disagreement.
But in October of that year, there was a shift, a caving in the minds of the people that would turn it all on its head. For days, social media raged. I read in horror as people shared tales of their experiences:
A young man in a photograph, his eyes light with future promise, was found in the custody of SARS in Awkuzu, Anambra state – a chapter of the unit particularly notorious for its blood-stained record – after being missing for months, one of the lucky few to be found alive, although he did not last long as a gunshot wound had been left to fester and breed infection.
But it was the story of Chijioke Iloanya, arrested at twenty in 2012 at a child dedication ceremony that would haunt me. His family selling off their property to pay for his release, the commandant having drained them of funds, allegedly looking them in the eye and saying he’d been killed, and nothing could be done about it. His father forced to swim in a river of dead bodies off the cliff behind the prison walls in search of his son’s body, if only to give him a decent burial.
People rallied: enough was enough. The first protests were just a small number, gathered at the government office. Celebrities lent their voices, announcing they would be physically present at protest grounds, and the numbers surged. Then someone volunteered to cook for the protesters, spearheaded by a group of women that would become the Feminist Coalition and people offered to donate. The donations poured in from across the globe as the hashtag #EndSARS trended worldwide, far exceeding what was required, setting in motion a string of events that would create one of the largest protests in Nigerian history.
‘Nothing will happen. Not today, not tomorrow,’ Soye said to me dismissively as news came from the capital that a dissolution of the unit had been ordered. We were watching the events unfold. A television crew was at the Lekki toll gate that had been blocked for days, interviewing protesters.
A stunning light-skinned woman stepped forward to speak, then proceeded to lambast the government. Soye turned to me. ‘Isn’t that your friend?’ he demanded in an accusatory tone, like I was somehow responsible for Zina’s actions. He did not notice a girl behind her who looked very much like him.
The protests were decentralised and peaceful, purposely so, to avoid avenues for disruption by government agents. In Anambra state, protesters marched for miles in the rain to the Awkuzu station, singing songs of protests.
Mounted speakers reiterated songs of protest across the country, from the resistant tunes of Fela to the insulting lyrics of ‘FEM’, the latter played when a governor attempted to address a gathering of protesters. It was what I’d always imagined a revolution would look like. Fists raised, fingers flipped in the direction of those in power. Like my grandfather, a good number were too young to remember the days of the military, and like him, they were unfettered, alight with a courage to act.
‘They’re very brave,’ I told Soye. He eyed me with palpable irritation, saying nothing. From a bank account I kept hidden from him, I made a sizeable donation. Because I recognised the hope in their eyes: it was the same light that once burned in Soye’s.
The police retaliated, descending on protesters with batons and violence. Bullet pallets were fired, water cannons launched, many dragged on the ground to waiting police vans, yet they remained undeterred.
Donations were utilised to hire ambulances and private security, a network of lawyers volunteered to provide bail representation for arrested protesters, a call centre took emergency requests and responded with prompt efficiency across several parts of the country. For many in the crowd, it was the first time they would witness the machinations of a working system and it spurred in them further hope for a different future.
‘Who is their leader?!’ a voice I didn’t recognise was demanding over the phone from Soye.
‘They’re insisting there is no leader, sir,’ Soye responded, subdued. There was no one to compromise; no one to pay off to make it all go away.
‘There’s an uprising under your nose and you’ve done nothing to control the narrative online? Are you a serious person?’ the voice screamed. I imagined this person’s veins standing out on their neck, their eyes red from unrestful sleep.
The blaze of protests had spread like an irrepressible forest fire, progressing beyond the rogue police unit to demands for better governance and a decent country. After over a week of impassioned demonstrations, those at the centre of power were ready to take notice as international voices joined the deluge. As the momentum ricocheted towards parts of the Northern axis of the country, government agents spread word amongst religious leaders and offline populace that the protests were against their religion, and I understood that the widespread low-education levels were purposeful, not a glitch in a system, but parts of a well-intentioned system to retain power and control.
Then to cut off funding, the Central Bank declared protest donations illegal and labelled their organisers terrorists. Bank accounts were blocked, donation links disabled. Protesters switched to digital currency.
‘Some of our usual influencers are refusing to take the job sir. They’re saying that anyone identified as a government mouthpiece would be ostracised,’ Soye explained.
‘Who is paying these people? Who is trying to bring this government down?’
It amazed me how certain they were that someone – a hidden hand – was behind the protests, that the people could not demand better of their own accord.
I’d always avoided policing Adelola’s activities because I never wanted to be labelled an evil stepmother. But this time, I had no choice because I feared for her safety. I waited until Soye was asleep; it wasn’t often he went to bed early, and that night felt like a gifted opportunity. I knocked on her door before I pushed my way in. She was on her phone, typing furiously away. And I questioned if her online friends were aware of her father’s identity, that he was one of the people they campaigned against. She sat up.
‘When did you start going to protests?’ I asked, not wasting any time.
She appeared stunned. ‘How did you know?’ she asked.
‘I saw you on the news.’
‘What?’
‘You were standing behind Zina during her TV interview at the Lekki toll gate. You’re lucky your father didn’t notice you. Do you know that?’
‘But I’m doing the right thing. Didn’t he participate in protests himself back in the day?’ she returned, defiant.
‘That was then. It’s dangerous; you could get arrested or injured. What would you tell your father?’
Adelola rolled her eyes; she would never do that to her father. ‘What could be more dangerous than a military government? Courage is dangerous. At least I’m doing something, not being a coward like you.’
I bristled at the insult. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘You think you’re better than him because you sit beside him and give fancy retorts to the nonsense he says and run your NGO. But how are you any better? You follow him everywhere, do everything he tells you to, and never speak up publicly for anything important. You heard your aunty talking about how hard the country is the other day and you couldn’t contribute to the conversation because you know you’re part of the problem. Coward!’
In the Women in Politics WhatsApp group chat, conversation had gone unusually quiet, with an occasional quip from Hassana about her shows. I decided to initiate the discourse. Adelola had referred to me as a coward and I was determined to reject the label.
‘What does everyone think about what is currently happening in the country?’ I wrote, then thought to myself as I sent it that even that was a cowardly way to begin.
Hassana: ‘Absolute nonsense, these young people are determined to tear the country apart. They are sponsored by terrorists.’ She seemed to always be beside her phone.
Saratu: ‘We need to start working towards moderating social media to prevent such nonsense from happening again.’
Me: ‘You don’t think they’re fighting for a legitimate cause? Some of these stories are heartbreaking.’
