Twenty Ten Twenty

Youth were killed. Some say nine, some say twelve but … youth were killed. One fateful morning, the Nigerian youth decided that police brutality had reached its limit and required an opposite but not-so equal reaction. Innocent souls were framed for despicable crimes and SARS made it its sole purpose to destroy those souls. Their inhumane ‘discipline’ took the youth three steps back and one step forward. Restive, or should I say restless youth picked up their devices and tapped their most frequently opened app: Twitter... or X. Every single post had an EndSARS or Stoprapingus hashtag. They duplicated these posts on Instagram and WhatsApp and the daring ones even went to Facebook. One would take a routine status or story check by 2am and see that almost everyone has posted #EndSARS with no context.

Controversial topic it is, for the impish youth dove under the plight of the innocent and their guardians. With sly tactics, they pushed the movement even further to enable the disabling of Nigeria’s correctional unit. In their defense, SARS had never really been a correctional unit. It had always been designed for torture. While the partially faultless citizens went about their daily lives, the jobless, the unemployed and the disturbed youth blocked the express roads and threatened the lives of government officials whose initial response was violence. Their leader sat in his presidential throne as military troops filed in and threatened the lives of many Janes and Johns.

The tension increased and Nigerians were starting to behave the way they would if bandits were rampant in the country. Families started spending their nights tuning their televisions to Nigerian news. Then it happened. TWENTY TEN TWENTY. On the twentieth day of October in 2020, the headlines read ‘Lekki Toll Gate massacre, Nine killed, four presumed dead, twenty-three injured.’ Lagosian youth sang ‘Memories’ by Maroon 5 to remember their lost colleagues, families, friends and people they never met.

That Gory Tuesday

Dear Mama,

I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not listening to Papa when he told me not to leave the house. I’m sorry for not being empathetic when you wept for me not to join the protest. But I’m not sorry for joining the protest. The country failed. The government failed. The citizens failed. I know that you’ll say I can't singlehandedly fix Nigeria. But Mama, you don’t understand. You never did and you never will. My friend partially lost his right eye because of SARS’ torture. My roommate was unlawfully and brutally murdered by the police on his way from the market. My lecturer’s teenage daughter was raped by her lesson teacher and the police blamed her; the public blamed her. All these cases were either enhanced or ignored by the police. This protest has cost me my education, my freedom, my sanity and something else you won’t believe.

I was there, Mama. I was at the toll gate. No, I wasn’t minding my business like you told me to. I was protesting and fighting for my rights. Maybe I should have stayed on campus that day but the pressure pushed me out of my bed. It pushed me out of my comfort zone (if I ever had one) and it pushed me to the Lekki Toll Gate. I sensed the danger coming Mama. I did. But I was done. I was done with you and Papa resolving that Nigeria was a failed state. Danger came to me. By 6:50am, the Nigerian Army violently came. They shot me. And I died. I’m sorry, Mama, but I don’t regret it.

Your Son, Nathaniel Solomon