Two Sundays ago, I stood on the tarmac at the Nnamdi Azikiwe Airport in Abuja trying to do a WhatsApp video call with my friend William Ukpe. Having just arrived from Lagos to march alongside him during the #EndSARS Abuja protest, I was eager to announce my arrival to my friends and colleagues in Abuja. I had been at the Lekki Toll Gate protest in Lagos, and it was somewhat pedestrian in comparison.
Scrolling through my Twitter feed the night before and seeing the worst of the Nigeria Police Force meting out violence against the likes of Ndi Kato, William and Aisha Yesufu inspired me to buy a return ticket to Abuja on the spot. Abuja was where my people were being bullied, and I would stand with them. In quick succession I called them up one after the other: William, Samuel, Dare, Ndi – “I am here! Let’s show these people that we are not afraid to demand for our rights!”
A few hours later, standing amid the large protest crowd at Maitama roundabout alongside William and Kevwe while chatting with Aisha, news came through on our Twitter feeds – SARS had been ‘scrapped.’ Tempering our celebrations with apprehension of the Nigerian government’s legendary duplicity, we all decided to stage a peaceful march to the police force headquarters. Marching arm-in-arm with my brothers and sisters singing resistance songs, I had never felt so free, so proud, so confident in all the life choices that had led me up to that point.
READ ALSO: #EndSARS Protest: We were invited by Lagos government to intervene, says Army
I looked to my left and to my right, and I saw leaders. I saw people with value. I saw greatness. At that moment, we were no longer Kevwe the doctor, William the analyst and David the journalist. We were Nigerians in the noblest and respectable sense of the word. Not even being subsequently hosed by a water cannon in addition to getting an eyeful of teargas and a backside of angry police horsewhip was enough to dull my conviction. Nigeria’s youth had finally risen up to challenge oppression in a noble, visible and coordinated manner. Best of all, I got to see it and be at the epicentre of history in the making. It was a lifetime Kodak moment for me.
There was no place for a person like me who could not bend into what that society wanted me to be. Hence after a while, the only logical option was to return home and assume my full, unapologetic humanity here.
A near-death experience above Lagos
A little over 24 hours later, I was in my customary window seat as the Air Peace Boeing 737 made its descent into Lagos on my return flight. Without warning, the plane suddenly started to drop like a stone. I could barely hear the screams of the other passengers over my own as I suddenly contemplated my completely unexpected and yet manifestly imminent death. It was all over and I was really going to die. Like this. Aboard a flight from Abuja. Where I went to attend a protest. Even though I didn’t have to. When I could have stayed on Terra Firma in Lagos.
After 30 years of some of the unlikeliest experiences, a human born in this part of the world can amass, I was finally going to die. Not quite as a regretful nobody, but also nowhere near where I would have wanted to be when my time came. I thought about my friends in Abuja getting the news that David died in a plane crash on his way back home after going out there specifically to get tear-gassed, shot at and horsewhipped alongside them. How awful would it feel to be in their shoes? I thought about my aunt and my cousins, perennially worried about my safety and always looking out for me. What an awful way to go out on them.
I thought about my late dad. Would he be happy to be reunited with me, or would he be sad that I never got to live out even half of the 66 years he managed on earth? A thousand and one thoughts crashed through my mind at the same time as I gripped my seat and prepared to die as we plummeted toward the ground. Suddenly the stall ended as the pilot managed to pull the plane level again. From the window, I could see the wings responding to the pilot’s yoke as the plane struggled to stay level. From my limited aeronautical exposure back in 2014 when I qualified for a helicopter cadet program and almost became a pilot, I knew that we had just survived wind shear while descending through a fierce rainstorm, which is every pilot’s nightmare.
As the lights of Lagos came into view and I slowly accepted that imminent death had been postponed to another day, I realised something that is relevant to our post-Lekki Massacre reality. I realised that even at that point, I regretted nothing. Even at the point of death while thinking at the ungodly speed that only a dying person can, I did not regret going out to Abuja to stand with my friends. I would rather not have died, but even if I had, it would have been OK.
I regret nothing
In the aftermath of the Lekki Massacre, a friend whom I left in the UK when I returned to Nigeria in 2013 asked me, “Do you regret moving back to Nigeria? Do you wish you had done things differently?” I did not give a direct answer because I was actually not sure. Did I regret walking out on the comfortable, low-drama, unspectacular life I might have had in Leeds or Manchester, and returning to Nigeria in March 2013? Has the measure of self-actualisation I have experienced in Nigeria been worth the emotional and psychological damage it may have inflicted in return?
I left the UK and returned to Nigeria not just because I was seduced by the ‘Africa Rising’ story, but also because I found the prospect of living out the rest of my life as a constantly embattled, nuance-free entity called “Black Man” totally unacceptable. I hated the fact that I had to change the pitch of my voice when I was talking to people if I did not want them to react to me in certain ways. I hated the fact that I constantly performed a pitch-perfect Yorkshire accent even though I was born and raised in Lagos, just to avoid being treated in certain ways.
I absolutely hated the constant reminder that my existence was an irritation to everyone from random people on the street to colleagues at work who were not at all familiar with the idea that a “Black Man” could be intellectually superior, higher-achieving, and not afraid to own it publicly. In that society, a “Black Man” with an ego only belonged in sports or entertainment – not at KPMG for example. There was no place for a person like me who could not bend into what that society wanted me to be. Hence after a while, the only logical option was to return home and assume my full, unapologetic humanity here.
This decision was made easier by the idea that Nigeria was witnessing deepened democratic freedoms, trade liberalisation, tech-driven innovation and a society that was opening up to new ideas. Africa appeared to be genuinely rising, and at least until 2015, I was having the time of my life. What I did not predict was that Nigeria would fall into a deep sleep, have a nightmare about the 1970s, wake up, dig out said nightmare from whatever unholy crevice in Daura it was domiciled in, and make it their president. Once that decision was made, it was only ever going to be a steep slide to the events of Tuesday, October 20, 2020.
As I write this, surrounded by images and videos of soldiers shooting unarmed protesters in Lagos and flogging civilians in the streets of Jos, it is as though every single latent fear I ever had about returning to Nigeria has come true. Like what I thought were my final moments inside the plane 2 Sundays ago, I can only flashback over the past 7 years and ask questions that will never be answered.
I traded the relative security of life in an economically developed, democratic country for the freedom and self-actualisation that I felt for those precious few moments marching with William, Kevwe and hundreds of young Nigerians through the streets of Abuja. It was worth everything just to witness that scene with my eyes and feel that glorious, fleeting emotion called hope. For those few moments, I was truly alive – we were all alive. The nightmare in Aso Rock sent his thugs to literally shoot us dead shortly afterwards, but it did not matter because, for those few moments, we experienced true life.
Was it worth it?
You want to know the truth?
It was worth everything.
