“Duma was a saxophone player and was hugely popular with Kitaki concert crowds. And she had only come to the protest venue because several famous faces had shown solidarity with the children.”
Self-guilt visited Duma, sat in her head, and then began to harass her. I should never have gone to Lekki tollgate. That was a biting, cold, and merciless voice in her troubled mind. Another voice countered: Everyone else was at the tollgate. Where else could you have possibly been? She began to see the faces of her friends and celebrities who had stood with her on stage. But now, she was unsure whether they were all alive. She was in a tiny room in a safe house without access to her cell phones and internet facilities.
She sat on the edge of a wafer-thin mattress, her sharp chin buried in her palms, oversized pajamas on.The walls of her room were grey, uninspiring, and boring. Now, the wall by the door became a giant haunting cinema screen, and she saw faces and blood and heard screams of the shot, wounded, and dying. Duma felt as though she were already in a government prison. She was forbidden from drawing the blinds up at night. She felt caged in but was still thankful that she had escaped the manhunt which had started after the shootings at the tollgate.
Duma fell back on the mattress, staring into the lingering white ceiling boards, her palms locked behind her head, her legs crossed on the cold grey tiles of the austere room. A wall clock chimed away into the still night. The otherwise gentle and regular rhythm grated her ears as though rapid machine gun fire she had witnessed days earlier.
The newly introduced curfew was due to go into force when Duma got down from an orange color tricycle at the Lekki tollgate. This was her first day at the protest ground. It was a sunset to sunrise lockdown that a desperate governor had introduced. He hoped to clear the toll point of tens of millennials who said they were the coconut head generation, unyielding as though ancient coconut drupes of Badagry slave town. They had occupied the popular tollgate for the past thirteen days, turning it into their solidarity point, bar, kitchen, club, and home. They had vowed not to vacate the place unless the government procured justice for unarmed youths who had recently died in the hands of policemen. Another unarmed millennial in dreadlocks had died in police custody in unclear circumstances. It was meant to be a routine questioning session. But the profiled young man had died in the hands of his interrogators. This was one death too many, activists and social media influencers had insisted. So, they bonded and started a protest which was alive on the streets just as it was kicking on social media.
Duma was a saxophone player and was hugely popular with Kitaki concert crowds. And she had only come to the protest venue because several famous faces had shown solidarity with the children at the tollgate. Again, she was attracted because she had jazz versions of several protests songs in her portfolio of remixes. From Fela Kuti to Bob Marley and Lucky Dube, she had done them all.
Erupted into cheers! That was how the crowd reacted once they saw her emerge on the stage from behind, chubby looking with her golden sax in hand. Her Mohawk was newly cut, and she wore a charcoal black turtle neck sweater over grey khaki trousers. Her trademark off-white sneakers offered her sharp athletic looks. She had suspected it would be a cold night, and the threat of mosquitoes buzzing close from nearby shanties by the tollgate was clear and imminent danger. Most of the crowd had come to protest with the National flag. And they waved beautiful handheld flags in ecstasy as Duma went backstage to prepare for the night. Today was sure to be a jazzy night of protest like no other. Many felt that way.
A DJ was already on stage serving an unbroken thread of giddy Afrobeats songs. He would vacate the stage once Duma was ready to blow into her hypnotizing wind instrument. She would bring Fela Kuti’s resistance songs to life. She would also sing other popular protest songs into the night so that the crowd would spend the curfew at the tollgate without leaving and falling foul of the law. They were prepared to sidestep the new restriction. It was a clever plan the government had not seen coming. Most people at the toll ground had come with mosquito nets, take-out food packs, and drinks that would carry them into the morning.
The MC on the night was a popular stand-up comic who told the crowd that he had forgotten his punch lines card at home. He insisted that what was at hand was more important than jokes. They were gathered because of lives cut down in prime stages of growth. He told the crowd that if anyone wished to have a fit of laughter, all they had to do was to think about how the country was thriving. Most people chuckled as though they had been tickled on their sides. He had made a joke already. Such was his talent. But now he was going to introduce someone with other gifts. Duma had appeared briefly, only to place her sax on a stand and return backstage to get into a conference with activists and speakers for the night. There was a press camera and microphone over her shoulders, but she had insisted that they go front stage since that was where she would perform. And go, the crew did!
“Coconut head generation.” The Master of Ceremony screamed into the cordless microphone.
The ecstatic mass of young heads responded with loud cheers, catcalls, and vuvuzelas.
“I can’t hear you.” That was the MC. But that wasn’t true.
The crowd rejoiced an octave higher than earlier as though they had clinched a prize they had been hankering after.
“Fundamental generation.”
The crowd roared.
“Articulate generation.”
The crowd rose in wild jubilations.
“The impatient generation does not have the temperament of our fathers and mothers. We are the fire and brimstone class.”
The crowd bubbled with wild emotions, smiles on the faces of most in the mix. All the while, the DJ was punctuating the noise with synthetic truck horns and ambulance sirens. Backstage, Duma was punching the air, psyching herself like an Anthony Joshua, before he confronted a fearsome beast in a boxing ring at Madison square garden.
“Now, we are about to bring on stage, the one,” he paused for dramatic effect. And the skilled man at the sound machines punctured the night with truck horns. “The only.” More truck horns. “The inimitable Duma the Sax Queen.” He had stretched the last word like a South American football commentator, ecstatic that a player had scored an added-time goal in a Brazilian league derby.
Duma jogged onto the stage. She had now changed into combat shorts. She picked up her sax and beckoned to the DJ to kill his own horns, which were still blaring. The crowd was in all sorts of jubilant states. The protest against police brutality had morphed into a concert. Duma raised her instrument to her lips, and the din of horns, whistles, and vuvuzelas began to fade in the crowd. She sounded the first jazzy notes, and the noise from the crowd went up again as though a hawk had swooped down on a chick only to rise back into the clouds on sighting Mother Hen.
She sang: solidarity forever; we shall always fight for our rights. This was perhaps the country’s most famous song among activists and trade unionists. It was a hit song, deeply loved by students on campus during welfare rallies by union governments. She repeated the lines, and the crowd sang along. The security men on standby were befuddled. The curfew had come into force at 07:00 PM, yet protesters had refused to vacate the grounds of the money-spinning tollgate. Such courage had only been witnessed during the military days when activists met the army courage for courage and words for bullets at the barricades. Several lives had been lost, and these kids were aware of that. What then had seized the better part of their senses? No one in the riot police squadron knew. But someone else was prepared to find out.
The protests had gone on for twelve days when the governor of Kitaki state called the President over the phone. He had revenues from the toll plaza shut in. The governor had wondered how activists had come to choose that plaza as the solidarity point. He was now convinced fifth columnists were at work. Perhaps they wanted to cripple his economy and have the state house of assembly impeach him? He wasn’t going to allow a bunch of rascals who said they had coconuts heads to bring down his government. If he had been a soldier in another life, he wouldn’t have allowed the protest to last more than thirty minutes. Democracy had a way of taking out the juice in soldiers. He hated it now. He longed for the long days when might was right. He was boiling when the President came on the line.
“Your Excellency, Sir.” His hot breath went down the line. “I hope you are well today?”
The President had been under the weather due to his coronavirus booster jab, which he had taken days earlier. But he was getting better now. Mr. President was a taciturn man with the face of a worried and underpaid philosophy teacher. He wouldn’t spend much time on the phone. The Muezzin at the presidential palace mosque had already raised a prayer call. He had only picked this call because it was from the governor of Kitaki state, and he knew what was happening by the Lagoon. “Have the coconuts left the plaza?”
Governor Atanda said he had exhausted his cards, which was why he looked up to the President for help. He had offered to look into the grievances of protesting young people. Still, they had insisted that was the government’s stock language, and they had heard that before. He told the President some devil of some sort had invaded the minds of this generation of young people.
“I will help them get the devil out.” That was the President. He hadn’t been in the army before, but some of his close aides said he would have made a fine general had he enlisted in the military after he left college. But he often said he didn’t possess the temperament of one willing to die with his boots on.
“I would welcome that.”
“Declare a curfew tomorrow. If those lazy rascals don’t vacate the tollgate, then I would be left with no other option than to use my wild card.”
“I will do as you have directed, and I just hope you don’t have to use that card.” The governor said.
The President ended the call, announcing that he was heading for the mosque. But he had asked the governor to call him at any time. And he would do just that.
The saxophonist blew into her golden instrument, moving from one part of the stage to another like a skilled theatre artist. She was singing Fela’s “Sorrow, tears, and blood,” and the crowd knew this song too well. Duma took a breather and wiped her brows while the crowd sang: “Dem leave sorrow, tears, and blood; their regular trademark. My people sef dey fear too much.”
“We are not afraid. Or are we?” Duma asked. She was smiling and sweating.
“No!” The crowd chorused in a wild voice.
“We are not afraid of their desperate curfew.”
“Yes, o!” Many said. Horns and whistles rent the night, the effervescence of the crowd spreading into other neighborhoods in the upscale area.
“We are gonna be here till Mama comes calling,” Duma announced.
The crowd concurred with jubilant voices. The security men just stood by, some singing along with the protesters. Many secretly admired Fela Kuti’s talents but would not be heard whistling to his tunes in uniforms while on duty. Fela was anti-government in most of his songs. But tonight was different. There was something infectious in this mass of young people who abandoned the comforts of their homes, willing to sleep on the express road so they may be heard. But were the policemen singing and dancing over what they would do? No one in the crowd had an idea of what was to come.
The governor had called the President again just after sunset, an unlit fat grey Cuban cigar in hand. He narrated the intransigence of the crowd at the tollgate as best as he could. He had lost his earlier temperament, the color of seething rage having slithered out of him as though a ghost fleeing a tormented house.
“Who are the leaders of this godforsaken protest? Can’t we get them on our side?”
“We have tried to identify them. We can’t find any. These protesters say they have no arrowheads. No spearheads whatsoever.”
“Not to worry. We will shoot some arrows into them.” The President offered his assurances. “I don’t want them to corrupt other states with this social madness.” Now he sounded like the military general he said he would never have become.
“Your Excellency, what we face now in this otherwise peaceful state is dangerous. These children at the plaza are driving away investors from my state.”
The President ended the call but not before telling the governor to steer clear of the matter. He would handle it with his security chiefs from the nation’s capital, and they had something the children didn’t possess. The governor thanked him profusely and hung up. He lit a cigarette, raised his feet on his mahogany desk, and shot curly smoke into the ceiling boards of his large office by the Lagoon. What was the President going to do? The governor brooded long and hard but found no easy answers. He pulled out a drawer underneath his desk and saw Johnnie Walker walking in there alone. He poured himself a stiff shot of whiskey, drank up, and took another; before returning the Scottish man to where he had been walking alone. Walking was his trademark. Now, he felt the man coursing through his own veins, biting at his stomach and making him giddy in the head.
*
The army had launched “Operation Lion Laughs” days earlier. It was a friendly exercise where army formations would interact with the communities they were based in. The army Chiefs said it was a “meet and greet” operation. But most host communities refused to meet and greet the “Lion.” They held that it was suicidal to go shake hands with a creature that had just escaped from a zoo and wasn’t used to seeing ordinary humans in a manner of speaking. So the army paraded communities without much fanfare. Only now, the army boss in Kitaki had received a call from his boss in the capital. He had been directed to give salutations to the children at Lekki tollgate. Orders had been crisp and clear in the manner of soldiers. And there was every indication that they would be followed to the letter.
*
Back at the tollgate, Duma had melded into a reggae riff. She was now doing Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds.” After she had crooned the first verse, she released her full lips from the sax and joined the crowd in singing: “baby, don’t worry about a thing, ’cause every little thing gonna be all right.” She did a reggae jig to the excitement of the crowd. Indeed, everything was going to be alright. Things turn out alright at the end; most times, that is. This protest night wasn’t going to be an exception!
Behind the toll plaza, a cavalcade of army trucks began to come into view, the dull military sirens of Steyr light trucks having announced the convoy earlier. Those on stage were the first to sight the guys in camouflages. Now, it seemed everything wasn’t going to be alright. Or was it still going to be? The police detachment was equally stunned. No one had told the squadron leader that reinforcement was on its way. They hadn’t been a situation at the plaza such that it would need the help of the army. So, the leader of the team, an intelligent Deputy Superintendent of police, a veteran of riots and mobs, went over to the army’s unit. He stopped at the lead open roof jeep and asked for the leader of the detachment. He was introduced to a Colonel with a granite face and a sharp nose. He demanded to know who had sent them over and what their presence was all about.
“Orders from above.” That was what the business-minded officer said. “We have been asked to override you. In fact, we will relieve you of your duties here tonight.”
The DSP was short of meaningful words. “But no one told us you were coming. I will have to reach out to the commissioner.”
“It doesn’t really matter.”
The police officer returned to his team and made some calls on his radio line. They were soon leaving the scene, and most officers were shocked at the turn of events. They had been relishing the protest-cum concert. But now it had to end.
Meanwhile, the presence of soldiers and the disappearance of policemen had set a cat among pigeons on stage. Some activists and celebrities meant to mount the stage after Duma had performed had emerged from their hiding places. Soldiers were dreaded in these parts of the world. The scars from the Abass and Babans days had not fully healed. The place was crowded. Some people had moved on the stage from among the crowd below. Everyone wanted to know what was happening. It wasn’t looking too good now with soldiers on the scene, rifles drawn, and the police gone.
The leader of the military contingent marched onto the stage, a bullhorn in hand. Soldiers brandishing AK-47 rifles with curved double magazines surrounded him on all sides. He wanted to know who the leader of the protest was. But no one volunteered him or herself forward. Very well, then. Those were the words in the Colonel’s head. He tapped his public address system repeatedly, switching a side button up and down; before receiving assurances that the thing was in order. Now, he would speak.
“This is a criminal gathering.”
He was greeted by a rapturous rejection from the crowd. There were indistinct voices, frantic waving of hands, and hand-held flags in annoyance.
“We no go gree.” The crowd began to chant. “Soldier, we no go gree. Laye, laye, we no go gree.”
“It matters not whether you accept our orders. We have clear instructions to evacuate this place.”
“Lai, lai, e no go happen for here! Curfew dey for the town, where una want make we go this night.” An intrepid kid said behind the Colonel. He heard and briefly searched for his face, but it was a futile exercise. The crowd chanted louder, horns blaring, the DJ having now found his skills again.
“This whole thing na setup game,” Duma said behind the Colonel. She was sure he didn’t hear that. The Colonel kept shouting himself hoarse into the bull horn.
“Soro soke, ogbeni sojo.” That was another brave kid asking Mister Soldier man to raise his voice a note higher. He was in the crowd below. “We no get time for a break in transmission.”
The Colonel heard that. But he let it fly past as though a gently released fart. He had been warned that these kids said they were a wronged generation and had lost respect for their tormentors. “Besides, a dusk to dawn curfew is in place. You have to leave here now. That is an immediate order from me to you. Do not contest it. It’s in your own interest and that of your parents, who need you at home right now.”
Most in the crowd sat down in defiance, waving their flags. Then the national anthem rose from somewhere in the belly of the group. The singer’s voice was croaky. It meant nothing. Other protesters joined in the singing, the toll plaza becoming a glittering ground of patriotic voices and flags on a balmy Kitaki night. But that was when the commanding officer took his beret off his balding head. At that moment, the giant floodlights at the tollgate went out. Rifle shots rattled the night. Then there was pandemonium at Lekki tollgate.
*
Duma had fallen into a light sleep while she lay staring at the ceiling boards. Now there was a gentle rap on the door that had jolted her. She asked that the door be opened. Her demons from the shootings hadn’t deserted her. Her keepers stood before her, two activists she hadn’t met before. Then the one who had rescued her walked in. Now, she felt at ease, her eyes blazing with questions.
“My colleagues here have devised a means to get you across the border.” The lanky guy who had dared the military during the dark days of the bespectacled one said. “Don’t bother about their names. We have decided to leave it like that for now. It’s for your own good. Please bear with me.”
“Why do I have to leave?” She sat up closer to the edge of the bed. “I love my country. I want to stay here. Stay with my generation.”
“We all do. That is why we do the little things we do.”
“Then let me stay with you.”
“No. You can’t at this time. There are hounds out there looking for you. You can’t lead a normal life if you remain here. They want you in their dark lair.”
“The same thing if I go abroad. It can’t be home.”
“At least you will be safe there.”
She looked around the room, and the other two gentlemen nodded. She sighed. Now, there was going to be a make-up artist who would be contracted. But it wasn’t up to the daughter of Lekki to determine what or who she would look like. She was in capable hands.
The trio left the room, giving the young activist space to gather herself together. Duma rose from the bed, knowing her life would never remain the same again, knowing that she would have to become the voice of her generation. She wasn’t sure she was the right one. She would tell her keepers that she just wanted to heal. After that process, she would think about the promise of the new life in front of her.
*This excerpt is from a longer story.
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