SHORT STORY: Grandmaster of protests (I)

Coloured tridents raised in the air like the sons of Eli. Loads of them frolicking in their numbers as they chant pop songs that served both as entertainment and as a reminder of the reason they are out in the gripping sun in the first place.

Clenching and unclenching their hands, they threw in the air Nigerian flags, some their face caps, some their nose masks at the beginning of any exhilarating new song. 

Dance competitions ensued as they engaged one another in leg works that unsettled the dust to birth smog into the air. As they danced, they moved in droves from the Lagos house of assembly, they marched towards the Bus Rapid Transit station at Ojota.

In Ojota, another pack of demonstrators dressed in clothes inscribed with cowries and a symbol of Olokun, like a human chain were in their bulk at Ojota roundabout, a stone throw from the gigantic statue of late MKO Abiola, the winner of the annulled 1993 presidential election.

The statute is a symbol of hope. The metaphor of struggle. The protesters’ eyes shone brighter as they stared at the big old shiny thing with many of them pouncing their fists on their chest in form of solidarity. 

And following their leader cue: “Yoruba Nation”,  they chorused: “Orílè èdè àwọn ọmọlúwàbí”

These actions and intensive gyration continued amidst the selling and buying of edible things which remains would later litter the streets and lay in wait for the impartial but dutiful Lagos sweepers to remove.

As the crowd grew larger, the police officers also increased in numbers. Strategically placed in all the entries and exits close to the Ojota bus stop. The protest leaders, Akanmu, knew the risk of violence, so amidst the rhetorics and choruses, he would remind them how today is not for violence but a path towards dialogue with the government.

However, suddenly, out of the crowd, came a substance wrapped in black nylon thrown at the police. The flung thing landed on the deputy commissioner of police (DCP) that led the team there. 

The nylon busted on his face and immediately flies covered him to feast on the faeces that had now denigrated the face of the DCP.

He couldn’t contain himself as he rushed away from the spot as one of his boys quickly grabbed a bag of water from a woman that was selling “drinks” close to the squad. Another of the police officers brought out his handkerchief and ran after him.

Rushing back with a partially cleaned face but a glistening pair of shoes. He commanded his men to stay in position. Immediately, some policemen crouched, while others spread out on flanks.

The loud angry voice came again ordering the officers to go on the offensive. The men of the force rushed towards the protesters with infuriating vigour, throwing tear gas at them and readily caressing their cudgels to do damage to the backs of the recalcitrant crowd.

Right from under the bridge of Ikeja, the Labour union had also painted the atmosphere with that of “aluta”, with comrades jostling for the microphone to rent the air with their frustration.

The ASUU strike, the meagre minimum wage, and the winnowing rumour of subsidy removal were the issues that took the voices of the eloquent comrades and gave vocal strengths to the stammerers in the union.

Placards struggled for spaces in the air as carriers cared less about the ounces of strength left in their bodies but for the cameras to capture their struggle. 

“We’re are workers, not slaves”, “Subsidy removal is a no”, “Yes to restructuring”, “End ASUU strike”, and many other inscriptions fought for meaning on the Ikeja road.

The road wasn’t short of sellers, buyers, commuters and passers-by who cared less about the protest but only wanted to make a daily living.

“We’re fighting for you and your children and your unborn children,” one of the comrades roared into the microphone. 

Beside him was the chairman, who had his phone by his ear. He nodded his head a couple of times, mumbled some words back into the phone and retreated his hands into his pocket. He moved closer to the man with bushy but grey hair by his side and whispered into his hair.

Suddenly, the movement stopped right from the front. The chairman, who had received a call some moments ago, collected the microphone from the comrade who was by now sweating profusely.

“Of the greatest Nigeria workers!! Reports reached me now that some of our comrades have been attacked at Ojota by the police,” he said in a high pitch. 

“These are the same police that is charged with the protection of the citizens of this country. Are we not citizens of this country again?

“Our brothers have been teargassed, beaten, molested and assaulted. This is an abuse of our rights and we must not allow it to continue,” his voice was already high enough to achieve the emotion he aimed at. 

“We shall march towards Ojota to support our brothers. We are soldiers in this struggle. Get ready, we shall continue marching.”

He dropped the microphone and in a well-coordinated form, the comrades at the front held hands, while others joined in and started marching away from the bridge towards the road that led to the Obafemi Awolowo road, Ikeja.

The news of how the protesters at Ojota were attacked had spread. The details of the story had now changed severely, but the bone of the incident was that an overzealous protester attacked the police first. However, the general response was that of his justification. 

Before reaching the statue of Awolowo that sat at the Coca-Cola junction, the Labour protesters made a turn toward Oregun and headed to Ojota. After a few minutes walk, with everything and everyone at a standstill except for the comrades who marched arm-in-arm, the route to Oregun had become desolate. 

At the turn of the hour, the youths, who had in their droves, assembled at the Lagos house of assembly to protest police brutality, burst out from Kaffi street.

The numbers had increased. The songs became heavier and reverberating. The energy appeared not to be diminishing. They crossed paths with the Labour demonstrators, they had heard the news of the attack at Ojota.

The coming together of both groups turned out to be a spark of fire. The gyration billowed in the air. The youths held hands with the comrades in the front as they took turns into the Kudirat Abiola way and marched to the envisaged destination. 

Horror had grown fangs at the Ojota bus stop. As if vampires were in town, the sun had gone down, streets became grim as protesters ran helter-skelter for protection from gun shells. 

Blood from the dead and wounded splashed on the tad road, painting the city with gloom. The police onslaught continued on any human seen on the road, whether a passerby or an actual protester, there was no difference anymore.

The police had dispersed the majority of the protesters those that lingered around were either hiding in a pile of waste or somewhere obnoxious in the neighbourhood.

The police had got a hint that more protesters were marching their way, quickly, the DCP had called for mobilisation from the already dispersed force, while he had also insisted that backup should be sent to his location.

Helmet-wearing, cudgel-flaunting and gun-wielding officers joined the fray as they marched in their hundreds in a coordinated fashion to stage a blockade in front of the road that adjoined the Ojota bus stop.

The protesters kept marching toward them arm-in-arm…