I travelled to Lagos on October 11 to spend some days with my friend Kolo for a much-needed holiday, which would culminate in a writing workshop I had been invited for. Before arriving in Lagos, I never knew or heard anything about the EndSARS protest, maybe because I was tucked away in Bacita, a small community in Kwara State where things could happen and end in this country before we realised it. Kolo was helping me to unpack my luggage when I told him about the throng of people I saw weaving through the highway, carrying placards.
“So, you nor know say protest dey happen for everywhere?” he asked.
“Protest? Which protest?”
“Even when there are protests in Kwara?” He paused to sit on the mattress. “Well, how will you know when you are in Bacita?” Then he told me all about the protest and the reason for it, a call to end police brutality and the disbandment of the notorious SARS police unit. As he spoke, I saw the hue of patriotism light up his face. But he frowned when he narrated how the police assaulted protesters and even killed a student the day before.
In the days after my arrival, Kolo followed news of the protest with keen interest. Most evenings when his friends visited, it was all they talked about. Sometimes, their chats morphed into heated arguments, and they would bark at one another long into the night. Once, their voices rolled over the fence and reached a neighbour’s house; the man shouted at them to keep their voices down.
It was on one such evening, three days after I arrived, that one of Kolo’s friends announced with pride that he had joined the protesters. They were seated under the cashew tree a few feet away from the veranda; close enough to the building to be at the periphery of the dim glow that spilled from the lit kerosene lamp in his room, but far enough for their voices not to carry to the next compound and disturb the neighbours. I heard him tell the others that the movement drew the attention of the governor who pledged to donate 200 million naira to residents who were victims of police brutality. When he said that, another friend insisted it was a wasteful gesture.
“How is it wasteful?” Kolo asked.
“Aren’t there several cases of looting by the protesters?” said the friend who had spoken against the governor’s pledge.
“And so? Does that suggest they are not victims? Didn’t you see the video of a SARS officer shooting a man in front of a hotel in Ikeja?” Kolo retorted.
I watched them argue, arms swinging, voices slowly rising above the cool breeze. The friend who had joined the protests mentioned that the gathering was peaceful, although the police arbitrarily scared them with tear gas. He hinted at his suspicion that some miscreants who attacked the protesters had the support of the government, but he couldn’t be certain. Kolo nodded stoically and concluded he would join the protest the next day.
I stayed indoors the next day, monitoring the news feed on Opera News from my phone. A headline announced that protesters were attacked with sticks, cutlasses and charms in Lagos. The image that followed was blurred, but at the rear of it, a car burnt brightly, illuminating the retreating protesters. When Kolo returned home, he said the violence did not surprise him. His form was slightly darkened by the gloom of the dying lamp in the room. When I asked him what the stampede felt like, he answered that the crowd was sincere, focused and peaceful. Why then were they dispersed with tear gas, cudgels and charms?
“It’s true that SARS officers frustrate the citizens,” Kolo said, “but I doubt that the unit will be disbanded.”
The following day, Kolo stayed at home and washed his clothes. I sat with him under the cashew tree, and we talked long into the afternoon until some news headline made him laugh and curse into his phone. He told me he could not believe what he had just read. In Abuja, people were prohibited from protesting because they were accused of violating the restrictions of the pandemic. Kolo smiled sadly but did not respond when I asked him if the protest was still simmering nationwide, despite the threats and killings.
I had lived in Bacita all my life, restricted to lush lands and fertile waterfronts, so I had never taken interest in the politics of Nigeria. But those who know about the numerous promises that were made to dissolve SARS since the beginning of its notorious activities, especially in 2018 when they came to a head, had enough reasons to be upset with the country. And, truly, Kolo was one of such people.
The protest continued in Lagos, like errant flames racing through dry grassland. From Alausa to Berger Roundabout, from Lagos Island to Yaba, Surulere…the call for the dissolution of the police unit raged. But this time, Kolo stayed away from it all and his friends did not visit him either. On the night of October 18, Kolo got real-time updates on the progress of the protest from Nonso, another one of his friends, who had been a die-hard participant of the movement from inception. Nonso was there when the protesters slept at the governor’s house. He was there when the police first dispersed them with tear gas, and when unknown militants attacked them with charms and cudgels.
And this is what baffled me: since I found out about the protest, I had wondered why the youths, despite the daily abuse they suffer, still went on to raise placards across major centres in Lagos, suffering indignity even as they chanted for the disbandment of the police unit. Several of Kolo’s friends had argued about the issues but did not provide any clarity, much to my bewilderment. However, when Nonso visited on October 19, he had answers for me.
That evening, I joined Kolo and his friends as they sat around the table under the cashew tree, debating the problems of Nigeria. Kolo had relocated the lone table in his room to the spot beneath the tree. I planned to leave Kolo’s house for Ikeja the next day. My bags were packed and ready to go. But Nonso prodded and pried, urging me to stay back and take a stand. He was quite vocal. He recalled protests that had successfully changed the course of nations, citing the example of the Black Lives Matter movement in the US. He insisted that the protest in Lagos was not a bad thing, and even if it was to be shaded because of the Covid-19 protocols, had the president’s daughter not held her wedding ceremony in the heat of the pandemic?
“The issue is that SARS officers punish youths unnecessarily. Imagine putting on a Rolex and being killed or wounded unjustly for it. Is that right?” Nonso asked.
We did not respond. So, he continued speaking: “Why are they firing tear gas at us? The government of this country is not normal. Our leaders do not care about us. They enrich themselves and watch us slave away in penury. If not, just tell me, what is so hard about disbanding a corrupt police unit? We care for our lives. But how can we demonstrate it? By protesting; not by fleeing.”
Nonso’s words pushed Kolo to dress up the next day and prepare to join the protest. I tried to discourage him but had no luck. He would not stand and watch the government destroy his future.
“You should come too,” Kolo said. “This affects all of us.”
After Nonso’s words the previous evening, I didn’t need much persuasion to give in. Perhaps I had even given in the previous evening as I had made no move to head to the venue for the writing workshop, as earlier planned.
A few years ago, when we were still at a private college in Bacita, Kolo once suggested we break the law. This was the plan: after school, we – me, him and a few of our other friends – would visit the grove of mango trees in Mr Shadrack’s backyard. Mr Shadrack was famed for prising students off his grove. His mangoes were out of bounds to everyone – that was the law. With a cleverly concocted plan, Kolo convinced us we could pluck the elusive mangoes and get away without getting caught. Plan in motion, we leapt into Mr Shadrack’s compound and climbed the trees. It was going to be a feast of mangoes as we loaded our pockets with the ripe fruits. Out of sheer excitement, I did not hear the warning call announcing Mr Shadrack’s return from his outing. Kolo and the others dropped off the trees in an instant and fled. I was left alone, stuck in the tree. Mr Shadrack patiently waited for me beneath the mango tree as I slid down the scaly trunk. I would later be reported to the school authority, brought out to the podium before the students and punished for my crime.
Several of Kolo’s ideas had led me and the other boys into trouble. Yet, we barely got out of one than we were careening into the next, with him as our lead. I should have remembered this when he asked me to join the protest. I should have declined his request and convinced him to stay back. Instead, we boarded a tricycle and joined the protesters who marched defiantly, throwing fists into the air and singing their demands as if their lives depended on it. The energy and synergy of the crowd assured me that I was doing the right thing.
The crowd ate up the grounds of the Lekki Tollgate. Some protesters overtook the left side of the road, spilling towards the centre of the tollgate. Others camped on the centre of the road, repeatedly chanting “EndSARS”. It was to the crowd on the right side that Kolo took me. I stumbled after him, mesmerised by the frenzy, the jarring music, the energy, and the colourful radiance of the sky blanketing the scene, as it heralded the death of daylight. I felt like a tourist in a revolution-inspired painting.
When officers of the Nigerian military unexpectedly arrived moments later, walking around the tollgate until they had us surrounded, we thought they were merely monitoring the situation or had been sent to protect us from nefarious elements hell bent on causing trouble. We watched them take positions all around the tollgate, cloaked in the shadow of the dying day. We were still chanting and singing when it happened. Gunshots. Kolo, who had been stamping his feet beside me, and chanting along with the crowd, was one of the first few to drop into a defensive crouch as more bullets rent the air. The soldiers were shooting at us. They had their guns aimed, facing off with us as though we were enemy combatants. Terrified, I lay down flat by Kolo’s side. The crowd, now mostly crouching low to the ground, raised their voices and belted their chants as one. But this time, it wasn’t the EndSARS rhetoric they chanted. The Nigerian anthem seized the atmosphere, punctuated by the sound of bullets zipping past our ears as we lay cowering on the ground.
I trembled where I lay, regretting too late my decision to join the protest. I felt Kolo’s shivers, and I could hear his teeth clatter as he muttered words I could not make out. When the bullets started hitting the ground around us, the crowd erupted in fear. We jumped up and ran for dear life. A scream here. A shriek there. The protest grounds had become a war zone.
I felt the close brush of hot metal. And then, I heard Kolo’s heavy heave, and a loud thud as he fell across several bodies clawing their way to safety. I nearly disappeared into the ground as I saw blood pooling around his loins.
Kolo was wounded. I could spot a drooping, bleeding mass of flesh around his loin area. Amidst the throng of distressed youths, I must have gone into shock because I had no idea when and how I dragged him across the lanes and placed him on the curb. The shooting had stopped, and the air was filled with smoke. I heard people crying, some were whimpering and, just beside me, someone lay lifeless on the ground, bloodied.
I had no idea where to take Kolo or what to do. So, I remained listless beside him and watched as medics arrived in ambulances, bundling the injured and deceased into them. A male medic approached us and asked if Kolo was my brother. I answered yes. It was true. Our years of friendship and the camaraderie of our parents had solidified our lives. The man advanced to touch him, but Kolo, now fully bathed in blood, told him he would be all right. A call interrupted the medic and he had to sprint away with a promise that he’d be right back.
With halting breath, Kolo asked me to pull him up. He was not fatally wounded; the shrapnel had only brushed his thigh and dug the flesh deep; he could still manage, he told me. I lugged him across the expanse, past a horde of people wailing, searching for their loved ones. I had no idea where we were headed. We staggered out of the smoky area and, reaching a quiet place, settled on the side of the road. I stood by the roadside for minutes. The road was empty. Lagos was burning. I thought endlessly of how to get him out of the darkness and bring us help, and then, luckily, a keke rider arrived at the nick of time and ferried us to a nearby hospital.
Kolo remained in the hospital after the wound was sewn shut. On the second day, after paying the bill for the short session he had undergone, and upon the insistence of his mother on his instant return to Bacita, we both boarded a taxi from Lagos to Ilorin, where we were received by his mother and driven home. Kolo was immediately taken to Saint Brendan’s Hospital. After two days in the hospital, and after numerous scans, the doctor told his mother that the wound extended to his bowels.
I visited Kolo regularly, but the visit that has stayed with me was that of November 4. His mother was not in the ward when I sat down on the stool beside him. The air around us was pungent; the wide room suffused with the distinctive tang of Izal. Kolo was already looking gaunt, his eyes vacant. He told me that he felt fire in his body.
“Something is eating my body,” he said to me.
When I got home that day, I thought about my friend and brother, about the peaceful protest, about the convoy of military vehicles that had arrived at the tollgate, and the armed men that spilled out to rain bullets on us.
The next day, November 5, Kolo died.
This piece is an excerpt from Who Gave the Order, an anthology of essays edited by Chibueze Darlington Anuonye and published by Masobe Books (2025).
Who Gave the Order is a powerful reckoning with state-sanctioned violence and the ghosts of a nation’s broken promises. Born from the trauma of the October 2020 #EndSARS protests, this anthology captures the voices of Nigerians who lived through and were changed by one of the darkest chapters in the country’s recent history. With stories that span pain, defiance, memory, and mourning, the collection is a bold literary monument to those who raised their voices and those whose voices were silenced.