“Let us not resist the pain that comes next,

Let it not say, no, that we did not go

because we feared the mountain.

We might come out scarred

But in the end, doubt wasn’t that hard to face

because in the end, fear becomes faith.”

-        Alysia Nicole Harris, Fear or Faith? Pt. 3

Our parents lived in a Nigeria that we can’t imagine. A world far away from our collective imagination. Living in a place like that must do something to you, it must come at a cost.

To be a Nigerian is a tricky thing.

It is to be part of two nations. One of hope, and one of desolation.

My generation has never seen dictators. We have never seen brute force the way our parents have. We have never seen our own hope weaponised.

Until now.

I was at the Lekki Tollgate on October 15 with a friend of mine, and I swear on everything I am, I have never seen a Nigeria like that. It was peaceful, and full of a collective love that you couldn’t describe. It was the first time I had seen, or even heard of Nigerians of all classes, all tribes, all religions, coming together as one, in peace. It represented, to me, the Nigeria of our dreams. A place where all was available to all. Where there was peace, and harmony, and unity. A Nigeria for Nigerians.

On Tuesday, October 20, 7pm, while singing the National anthem, seated, waving the Nigerian flag, Little Lagos—I had begun to call it—was massacred by the Nigerian army and police. We all watched it happen on Instagram live.

I live 5 minutes away. And as the gunshots shook the air, and came closer and closer, I huddled up next to my brother, scared that a bullet would crash through the window and kill him as well.

The gunshots lasted for 7 hours.

***

I have a home, and you can’t come into it without my permission, because it’s mine. I have a life and you can’t take it, because it’s mine, and it has intrinsic worth. As a protester, I have a right to protest peacefully. I have a right to call out a system that has hurt me. You do not have the right to take that right away from me.

There are rules. There are laws.

On Tuesday, we saw the Nigerian government does not give a fuck about what we think our rights are. In fact, we don’t have rights, all we have are privileges that can be withdrawn the moment it becomes inconvenient for the powers that be.

We wanted to know who gave the order. We wanted answers. We wanted to hear from our president.

We wanted to know who gave the order for Black Tuesday.

And, as we, a nation watched the National broadcast, as we watched the president address us, a cold realisation creeped into our hearts.

We had wanted answers.

We had wanted to know who gave the order for Black Tuesday.

And now, we were looking at him.

***

The days after, we witnessed the most aggressive misinformation campaign.

The devices taken from the toll gate were not cameras, no. They were ‘infrared sensors’.

The billboard lights were dimmed by circumstance.

Nobody died.

The goal seemed to be to make us doubt ourselves, and our very senses. Was October 20 a collective dream? Were we all going mad?

The problem with the government’s lie is more than its content, but its audacity. Its grandness. Even when caught with the bloody knife in their hands, they shake their heads and say no, this wasn’t us.  

How does a nation wake up and continue after tragedy like this? How do you continue?

We do what we’ve always done, I think. We wake, we cry. Then we rage, we paint, we write, we cook, we sing, we speak. We work, we build.

We live and continue living. Trying our very best to remember those that are gone.

What happens to a generation that has been beaten down repeatedly? That has been shown, time and time again, that they are governed by individuals who simply don’t care?

We are about to live the answer.

“For our wrestling is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the world's rulers of this darkness, and against the spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places.”

-        Ephesians 6:12