At first, it was a single tear sliding down from our butterscotch eyes to our pale cheek, followed by another one, then another one, until the floodgates opened. Tears burst forth unimaginably like watering from a dam. Watery substances streaked from our flaring nostrils down to our open quivering lips.
We sipped it. It wasn’t bitter, but it was salty. Candle light burnt our hands, but we could not feel the pain. From our heads to toes, tears burst out uncontrollably. But we fist strongly at our scripted placards because its one of the weapons that amplified our inaudible voices. A heart-wrenching wailing rented the air even as the dirge rhythmically resonated amidst the people.
Goosebumps racked our body painlessly but forcefully as we behold the portraits and names of the compatriots who were touchdown by the operatives of Special Anti-Robbery Squad.
That’s how best I can describe a night that fell at Alausa Ikeja Lagos last night. Presumably, a nightfall at Alausa should arouse the hopes of pleasant relaxation after a hard day’s work but the narratives changed as hordes of young Nigerians trooped to street with candle sticks in honour of defenseless victims, heroes and heroine who fell by the bullets of these wolfs in sheep’s cloths, men of the king who rode on high horses only to see others as grasshoppers that can be maligned, tortured, harassed and sometimes kill at will. Clearly enough, the sheer redolence of power laced with unchecked made the dereliction of duty easily achievable and
That last night, we stepped beyond the fiefdom of mortality and fantastically transverse to, and communed with the celestial. We saw Fela Anikulapo, Kudirat Abiola, Ken Saro Wiwa, Great Awo and the clusters of unsung heroes and heroine who died for the same course sniggering at us. The beaming that greeted their faces were enough for us not to have any illusion that the object of our agitation met them well. They saw our assiduous and tenacious zeal to liberate our nation from the shackles of endemic Political quagmire. In likes manner, we saw Jimoh Isaq, Sleek and the 52 heroes and heroines who were murdered in their prime by those blood-dripping monsters is hurriedly speaking for vengeance.
It was in that dark, cold alley we sang the heart wrenching songs of our beloved compatriots who we know that though physically dead but whose voices peters on forever. Also, we swore never to retreat nor surrender until every blood dropped counts.