For love of country, we gave everything. That morning, I woke up outside of myself. It was strange, as if I had stepped into the world without my body. I looked down and saw it lying there on the ground — cold, lifeless, forgotten amidst the chaos. The crowd ran past me, and I realized… that wasn’t me anymore. I had become something else, something more than just a man on the street. I was everything, and yet, I was nothing at all.
The noise around me blurred into a dull hum. A gunshot cracked the air — sharp, final. Someone screamed. I felt the sting of it somewhere deep inside me, even though I no longer had skin to feel. The world was spinning, but I wasn’t. I was standing still, watching them. Watching us. Watching me.
I was there among the protesters, the ones they called thugs. I remember marching, my fist in the air, believing that this time — this time — something would change. I was angry, yes, but more than that, I was hopeful. I thought we could make them see us, hear us. But now, as I stand outside of time, I see how naive we were.
I’m not just one of them, though. I was the artist too — the young dreamer who poured every last naira into studio time, convinced that music could free me. It was my escape, my way out of the suffocating reality of this place. I wasn’t supposed to be in the streets that day. No, I had a song to record, a future to chase. But when the call came, I knew I had to be there. For what’s a dream if the world it’s built on crumbles beneath your feet? I stood there, believing in a better tomorrow, until tomorrow came and took my life with it.
But I was more than just the artist. I was the reporter too, standing at the front lines with a camera in one hand and a notebook in the other, capturing history as it unfolded in blood and fire. I thought I was just an observer, but in that moment, I became the story. I was silenced along with the others. My words were cut short, my camera lens shattered, just like my body, by the force of their bullets.
And still, I am more. I remember being the tech bro too — the guy too afraid to carry his laptop outside because the police would see me as a criminal. I coded quietly in my room, building something from nothing, hoping it would lift me out of this place. But even I couldn’t stay silent forever. They profiled me too, made me a suspect in a country where my only crime was dreaming of a life beyond this. The fear of being picked up, beaten, robbed — those were the ghosts I carried long before I became one myself. I knew men who had paid for their freedom with everything they had, and some who paid with their lives. They were me too, and now, I’ve joined them.
It’s been four years now. Four long years since we stood at Lekki Toll Gate, believing we could change something. We gathered in numbers, we raised our voices, we stood our ground. But they didn’t see us as citizens. They saw us as threats. So, they sent soldiers to “restore order.” That’s what they called it. But it wasn’t order they wanted. It was silence.
I still hear the shots ringing out in the dark. I still see the flags, soaked in blood, raised high as we sang the anthem of a nation that betrayed us. I still feel the weight of my body hitting the ground, though I am long past feeling anything. They called it a massacre, but it was more than that. It was the death of hope, the slaughter of dreams. And now, four years later, what has changed? The panel they promised would deliver justice? A joke. Compromised from the start. The same people who pulled the triggers were the ones signing off on the investigation. It was all theater — an elaborate show to make the living believe they care. But we know better. We, the ones who died, know the truth.
I am every soul that was lost that night, every body that hit the ground and never rose again. I am the ghost of the protester who stood with his banner high. I am the spirit of the artist whose songs will never be heard. I am the journalist whose pen was silenced before it could write the final chapter. I am the tech bro who will never finish his code. I am the passerby who was just walking home, the innocent bystander caught in the crossfire of a war I didn’t sign up for. I am all of them. I am all but one, yet I carry them within me.
How did we get here? How did this country — our country — become a place where the fight for basic rights is met with gunfire? I remember the dreamers, the fighters, the ones who thought we could build something better. But here I stand, four years later, and nothing has changed. The streets are still filled with fear. The police still prey on the weak. The politicians still feast on our suffering.
And yet, we are not truly gone. Not while the living still remember us. Not while the fight still burns in the hearts of those who survived. I hear them, the ones who still cry for justice. Their voices are softer now, more weary, but they are still there. And as long as they fight, so do I. Because I am not just one ghost — I am the spirit of every soul that believed in something better. I am the dream that refuses to die.
I wait. I watch. I wonder if anyone will finish what we started. Will anyone pick up the pieces of the dream we fought for? Or will our sacrifice be forgotten, like so many others before us?
They killed us once. But they cannot kill the hope that lingers in the air, the defiance that whispers through the streets, the resolve that flows through the blood of those who remain. We are still here. I am still here. The ghost of all but one.
And I will not rest. Not until the fight is won.
