20/10/2020.

Where is our justice?

Ebbywrites101GhassanEchuegbe@

The afternoon scorching sun was set to a blazing heat, crashing against our heads and sending an extremely uncomfortable tingling sensation through our bodies - hot and sweaty, with salty liquids dripping down our heads and legs aching from having to stand the whole night out on the dark steets. Our yells and chants of protest echoing through the night, we were adamant, determined to get what we wanted and then when morning came and whizzed past in a blur that contained our yells and pains. We still remained there, our legs and eyes sore from keeping up late at night, barely getting any sleep. Our bones throbbing hard and painfully underneath our flesh, wet and sticky liquids continued to drip down our faces, our dirty body continued to rub against each other as we pushed and stumbled further down the roads, as we blocked off vehicles and obstructed the people from proceeding toward their daily jobs.

They had attacked the previous night, we were furious.

We were all civilians, we had gone through a lot together, we'd gone hungry together and also suffered from the cruel illtreatment the leaders in power and authority had bestowed upon us. All we wanted was to be listened to and given attention, all we wanted was our rights to be rightly bestowed onto us. Our stomachs had rumbled greatly in hunger, our heart filled with sorrow and grief, our eyes had watched their own kids enjoy in the riches, wealth and bitter sweats of we Nigerians.

We wanted to be treated fairly, we wanted revenge for our loved ones killed wrongly and wickedly.

Their bloods cried - I could hear it. Their troubled souls roamed around the streets with us - we didn't see them but I could feel it. Just the previous night we were all together and happy. Their cries seeped straight into my ears and swelled my already throbbing heart with pain and sorrow. They want us to be treated good after their untimely deaths, they want to see their families happy after they'd left. They also want the tears of their mothers and families be wiped away. Old women had weeped when their joys got snatched from them, poor fathers had shed blood after all their suffering had gone down the drain, killed in unjust ways. In just a night

We weren't going to let their blood go in vain, we never wanted war, we just wanted their attention and our rights. We wanted to be listened to.

That afternoon, as we continued to trudge angrily down the roads, our hands raised higher than our heads aching and throbbing painfully - my ears had caught the words of hatred and rage of a man as he conversed with a fellow protestor. He was one of those men, the men who protested with us. Even old enough to be my father. He had bloodshot eyes that rolled around with huge angry balls. He was dark and tall, slender, too. Clad in a black polo shirt over short khaki trouser that was looking tattered and old, showcasing his bony legs that gave off the fact that he indeed was an hungry man.

Poverty was written all over him, and the way he twisted his face in a grimace, jaw tightened in anger, wrinkles decorating the whole of his jet black face, with his shiny, glowing head giving a bright reflection of the bright sun rays; I could tell, anybody could tell he was a poor hungry man, derived of the pleasure of living a happy life due to poverty. Sanity had probably forsaked him years passed. He was looking like a  man ready to kill if a war was meant to break out. He looked fearless, and the moment he had yelled out in anger:

"KILL ANYONE KILLABLE! AND DESTROY ANY LIFE DESTROYABLE! LET US ALL DIE! LET US ALL GO!"

My blood had run cold and my heart had banged hard with fear, his yell had confirmed just the fact that he saw no reason to live in life anymore. The poverty had probably destroyed each and every good image of him becoming a better person in a better place in future and that was wrong.