By John Ogunlade
Our placards were scarecrows held high. The images of our hearts were fists tinted red and black. Green-white-green scarves coiled our necks; we swayed the hoists of our billowing EndSARS flags to the sun. Cameras searched for bodies murdered for their sinful tattoos and dreadlocks. We wanted their ghosts to guzzle our homemade jollof rice. The best taste of our lives amid our swallowed hysteria. When night dawned, we felt change was near—what we wanted, what we will fight for until we gasped our last breath.
Kin-kin-kin-kin
Bullets came with their lights. We saw blood and ourselves clamoring for breath.
John, this story is evocative (placards/scarecrows and hearts/fists etc.). I feel the pain and suffering of the crowd. Well done!
Thanks! Rogers. I felt it too
Very powerful imagery. Thank you for writing this.
This is my class teacher, a job well done!!!