CRUSHED

Arhe felt pain when he heard Brother Emma’s voice tremble as he sang the national anthem, fear paralysing his lungs. 

Army men, about twenty of them, in their camouflage, advanced steadily, malevolently, towards the rioters, guns firing at them. 

Arhe felt pain when he saw the brave band who had hitherto held one another’s hands in courage and oneness, shamelessly breaking away, scrambling for their lives. 

The holocaust happened. 

Gunshots, 

screams, 

cries,

wailings,

rending the void that was night. 

A bullet whizzed over Arhe’s head and embedded itself in the gut of the woman behind him. Arhe felt pain then too. Not for himself, the bullet had missed him, but his throat went dry as he watched the woman howling in agony as she fell, trashing on the ground, clutching at the banner she had been bravely holding up before that said, “#SAY ‘NO’ TO POLICE BRUTALITY!”. Now the print was stained with her blood, a violent testament to her fight. 

Arhe ran then, mind screaming. 

Everywhere people pushed about him, somebody’s knee collided with his nose, and when he crumbled to the ground in shock, another stepped on his head in flight. 

The boy was too afraid to feel pain, too afraid to cry. 

His heart in his mouth, he hid under an upturned caravan, squeezing his small frame through the windows. His hands cut against roofings and iron nets, and crouching, he watched the disaster unfold. He had shut his eyes then, as if, if he stopped seeing, the horrors would vanish. 

Overhead, he still heard gunshots and cries, along with dreadful other sounds that went ‘Thud. Thud. Thud.’

~~~~~~~~~~~

Several weeks ago, the country had witnessed a major upheaval when youths everywhere had taken to the streets clamouring “END SARS!” 

The fight was against the Special Anti-robbery Squad, a force that had been instituted in the 1980s to quell robberies, kidnappings, carjackings. Crimes that had ravaged the country during those dark times. Somewhere along the passage of time, the Squad had lost their way, and now the very forces whose purpose it was to protect had become the country’s greatest nightmare. 

They robbed, they beat, they raped, they killed. All wantonly. And when people couldn’t take it anymore, they came together holding out banners, crying for better government and reform. 

For over two weeks, the youths had peacefully protested, holding candle processions at night, praying, giving free food to all who bravely came out of their shells and comfort zones to protest, helping people who needed help. Throughout those weeks, people of every tribe and religion and culture all fought and strived and shared as one. 

Arhe watched all this in the fish-screened TV in Mmami Sabu’s dreary bar where he usually helped around. Only bleak old men came there, drinking and making a lot of din, telling stories of times past that they were apparently still stuck in, and whoring. Mmami Sabu used to chide them, especially the married ones. And there was also “Mallam”. A hunched-over wiry old thing that always wore a stained white kaftan. Nobody knew his name, and he only drank kunu. He was the only one that talked to Arhe.

Before the bar, Arhe used to hawk bananas and sachet water on the streets of Lagos, with his elder sister who was a mother to him. She had died through a careless delivery by a midwife. They didn’t have the money to go to a proper hospital. Arhe was only eight. 

After a long time, a distant rich boy-uncle had found him, and seeing his conditions had disapproved, shaking his head, no no, a boy his age should be in school, not on the streets!

One day, amidst preparations for school, uncle had taken him out to buy ice cream. 

And that was the first time Arhe encountered the dreaded SARS. 

They halted the car, eying it’s expensiveness. 

They told Uncle that he had disregarded a few road laws, that his papers were not complete. That if he greased their palms handsomely they would let him go. 

Uncle asserted that he had broken no laws, that his papers were complete, and that he wasn’t going to bribe them. 

Arhe then was only wondering when they would be allowed to leave so that they would finally be able to get ice cream. 

The men got angry, saying that Uncle had disrespected them. How dare he. Who did he think he was. 

They asked Uncle to do a series of frog jumps from the check-point to their vehicle and back again. 

Uncle argued that he would do no such thing, that he would not humiliate himself in such way. 

An argument broke out. One of the men gave him a resounding slap him across his face, another cleared Uncle’s legs with his so that Uncle landed on the ground with his buttocks. 

At this moment, Arhe had dropped down from the car, shouting and crying. 

Other people drove by like they had seen nothing. Like what was going on was none of their business. 

One of the men cocked his gun to threaten Uncle.

When Uncle tried to get up a shot was fired

The only thing Arhe saw was Uncle falling on his back to the ground, blood rushing from his neck. 

Uncle was dead.

SARS had killed him. 

When the men saw the situation, they ransacked Uncle’s pockets, took all his money and drove off with Uncle’s car. 

People had gathered around later to shake their heads in pity and console the child. Lamenting to themselves about the evils of this world. That God would punish the perpetrators, and so on and so forth.

But Arhe was crushed. The hopes Uncle had awakened in him shattered into a million pieces, like window glass in a car accident. He had wanted to be a Pilot. To wear those smart white uniforms and drive those breathtaking aircrafts. To fly high in the clouds and look down on a world of mist and seas. But his dreams had perished with Uncle. 

He returned to hawking. But when he found himself constantly bullied by other hawkers because of his age and size, he stopped. 

Then he found Mmami Sabu. 

She didn’t make enough to pay workers and did everything by herself. Arhe helped in cleaning and arranging the place and the woman was kind enough to give him three meals a day, and a place to sleep, which was a bed on the floors of the bar. 

But when he had seen the Movement on the screen, his heart ached to join those people. 

For Uncle. 

Mmami Sabu had begged him not to leave. But the boy hadn’t heeded her pleadings. 

On the protest grounds, he had sought to help in any way he could. He had no money to contribute. Had no big name to give strength, he was only 14. So what he did over the next few days was to assist, in any way he could. When food was shared, he would pass it along, he picked up dirts and made the arena clean, he helped the hawkers among them. When someone needed help in erecting a tent, he was there. Despite the hardwork, he had a thoroughly good time. He was mostly spellbound by everyone’s actions. There were no leaders spearheading the protest, just injured hearts with steel resolve. 

In short to citizens everywhere it was a most beautiful event. 

To the government it was ghastly. If the youths came together like this now, in the future they could be unseating them. 

And in their desperation, the government had tried to subdue. They released tear gas on them, water cannoned them, beaten them with batons. But the youths remained, and the government shuddered. 

And now they had resorted to this. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Arhe gaped, distressed, when he saw, among those that ran, people dropping lifeless to the ground. One, two, five, eight! His heart broke to count. 

One man that had been shot kept on running, panic in his eyes. He was not yet even aware that a bullet had passed through his chest, that he was bleeding. Until his heart gave out and he dropped to the ground with a sickening thud. His wide eyes stared lifeless at Arhe, his mouth open in protest and disbelief. 

And Arhe wept in frustration.

What wrong had these people done? All that they wanted was a better life, one that held no fear and suffering, and they had come out to demand for it. In the future, many would consider them heroes, valiant men and women who were not afraid to give their lives for what was right. But these people were not interested in being heroes. These people did not want to die. They wanted to live their lives to the fullest, and that was why they had come out here on the streets to claim it. There was no glory in their deaths. 

Their country’s flags were flying about in the flurry, or trampled in mud, or stained in blood. The vibrant green and white colours staring at everyone in mockery. 

The shootings persisted, and so did the carnage 

And then everywhere was set on fire. 

The torment continued until morning. Even the dead did not sleep. 

********

When the boy found Mmami Sabu’s bar that morning, bruised, aching and bereaved, barely making it out with his life, Mmami was relieved and attended to him in great fret. 

That day, the men at the bar were silent, a mournful atmosphere clouded the room. 

They regarded him a moment, and might have said something to him, but their hearts were heavy, and their eyes only flitted back to the TV screen. 

“Oh, I hate bullets! I hate them!” A man was moaning, for lack of something more intelligible to say, goosebumps were visible on his skin. “Why did they have to pass through all those people? Eh, why? Why did God allow the bullets to…”

No, Arhe thought, blame not the bullet, it had done nothing, it is only lead. Blame neither the soldiers, for they are merely hired thugs, puppets in the hands of puppeteers. 

Another fat toad-like man sighed heavily and said, “Let us at least hope that the outrage this evil will spark will be a catalyst for change. We can only hope…” heave, “Those people…,” heave “Chai!” his voice broke and he couldn’t continue. 

But in that moment, Mallam had turned to look at Arhe with bright eyes, laughing without mirth,

“Nothing will happen, boy do not be deceived,” he said, “as long as our leaders are alive, justice will only remain a dream, unreachable, like those cotton wool clouds you see in the skies. Was it not how me and my people had fought the same way in Zaira? Peaceful protests. A righteous cause. The Military opened fire on us.…”

And in that instant, Arhe was Mallam, reflecting himself in the old man’s eyes. 

“…Many of my brothers died that day, what justice was done for them? No, they were only forgotten, their story swept away with broom and packer and thrown into a dustbin somewhere. 

On the screen, the Lagos State Governor was saying, “This is the toughest night of our lives as forces beyond our direct control have moved to make dark notes in our history, but we will face it and come out stronger.”

But Arhe could only think of his Uncle, his gushing neck. The woman that had died behind him, clutching her stomach in pain, the many that had tragically fallen lifeless. He saw their tears, their eyes looking at him, imploringly, their words unspoken telling him, “see…see…”. 

He could only hear crying and gunshots, pacing with the same rugged thump as his heart-beat. 

He could only feel the heat of the fire, and his pit of anguish. 

His eyes stung, welling up with tears. 

Mallam was still talking, and Arhe’s consciousnesses slowly ascended from the unfathomable grief from which it had sunken to listen to him,

“… And we have learnt nothing, we will still learn nothing, this hallmark in our history will bring no brighter tomorrows, the way it is in the White Man’s world, because Nigerians do not learn from history. We have disregarded history. I only feel bad— I hope to Allah that will not be the case— that all those children may have died in vain.”