Being Nigerian
By: Tena Gede-Ogu
Tags: Nigeria, Police Brutality, Naija, Protest, Endsars

Failing at the Nigerian dream: Japa and love Naija from afar

Photo by Ayoola Salako on Unsplash

Today Nigeria struck again, and while the place may fail to shock me, it never fails to break my heart. Being Nigerian is hard. Harder for some than others but at the end of the day, e go reach everybody. I am moaning about Nigeria from a position of privilege, I managed to achieve the Nigerian dream, to “japa” and love Naija from afar. I was successful for the first few years, I ran back to Nigeria each chance I got, enjoying the vibe, the food, my family, and friends. I reveled in the culture while abroad, proud of my heritage, my home, even my green passport despite the baggage attached to that little booklet. But now I struggle, I struggle to love the place I feel will always be my home.

Today Nigeria struck again. Nigeria has been striking for a very long time, I would make an ASUU joke, but I lack the strength. I want to list the ways Nigeria has struck but where do I start? I could go as far back as the year of my birth, when Abacha still had enough air in his lungs to loot Nigeria and oppress her people, forgetting he was merely a man, who would face the maker he professed to believe in, the moment his time on earth was cut short. That’s too long ago, and I was too young to fully understand the toxicity I had been born into by virtue of being born in the land of green white green.

Maybe I could start at the first time we were robbed, when armed men broke into our home as we slept in our beds, held guns to our heads and carted away all that we owned, not sparing the soup in our fridge and when the police made sure the robbers had left before deigning to appear. I slept through that one so maybe not, but I was awake for the second time. I remember my cousin wracked with shivers as strange men in guns ordered us around the house and piled us and our guests into a bathroom while they tore our home apart. I remember my heart leaping into my mouth as my father traded words with a robber who kept begging his superior to let him shoot my stubbornly outspoken dad. Nigeria struck when our neighbours banded together to save us as the police yet again refused to come. They weren’t willing to risk encountering the robbers.

Nigeria struck me “in the abroad” when the exchange rate kept rising as I lived the Nigerian dream of studying overseas, goodness knows how daddy managed when my education far surpassed the monies he had squirreled away and it broke his heart to cut my allowance. Nigeria struck when the 2015 elections came round and my people voted in an established tyrant for religious and tribal reasons and I breathed a sigh of relief because I was terrified of the bloodbath I was sure would occur if the outcome had been different. I should have known the blood would flow, regardless.

Nigeria struck as we tried to make a business work in a country determined to drain her people of everything they have and give nothing back but anger and insecurity. Nigeria struck when my relatives were kidnapped one right after the other, threatening to bankrupt the families and altering the course of my cousin’s life. Nigeria struck on every trip between states with hearts in our mouths, wondering if today is the day you hear bullets wheezing past your ear and embedding themselves in the limbs of the passenger to your right and the temple of the one to your left as you ignore the warmth of the sticky liquid splashing on your face. Will today be the day you ignore their screams for help, as your sprint to safety is interrupted by the men who emerge to lead you none too gently to their camps, uncertain if they’ll hold up their own end of the bargain when your family sells all they have to pay the exorbitant price they place on your life.

Nigeria struck every day for the last decade-plus, as homes were raided by thugs in uniforms, state-sanctioned gunmen who routinely kidnapped Nigeria’s sons and daughters from their homes, the streets, their cars, and wherever else they could find them. Nigeria struck each time they held a gun to a citizen as they watched them transfer all they were worth to the designated bank account. Nigeria struck each time someone stood up for themselves and received a bullet for their courage or managed to run as a passer-by fell. Nigeria struck each time mother searched from police station to station for a son who had committed no crime and who would eventually turn up in a morgue. Nigeria struck as fathers cried and lovers mourned while siblings learned to refer to their sisters in the past tense. Nigeria struck until we bled, again and again with no time to heal.

In the year 2020, when the world stood still, Nigeria made me proud again. Nigerians decided enough was enough, we decided we had a right to live free from harassment. My people marched as one, first the young in the economic capital of the country, undivided by tribe or religion. The city’s capital was quick to follow, facing down water cannons, running from teargas and returning almost instantaneously. The protests spread like wildfire, catching almost every state as it went along; the absence of the north was called out and ignored; there was brotherhood on the ground.

END SARS was the top Twitter trend across countries as my brothers living the Nigerian dream took to the streets of their new countries, marching for the place that owns their hearts, the place they tried and failed to escape. Petitions were signed and donations flowed in even when organisers said they had enough; multiple organisers, there were no leaders. Patriarchy FC and the Feminist coven worked together as one, Christians had services at the protest grounds while Muslims watched on and they returned the favour when the Muslims had to pray. The unity was a thing of dreams and we feared it was too good to last.

We formed an ecosystem that surpassed our government in efficiency. We set up telephone lines and volunteers providing essential services including legal aid to arrested protesters, medical attention to the wounded, and mental health support for the drowning. The Nigerian government would have been ashamed if they still had the capacity for it, but you cannot shame the shameless.

ignoring our demands, they instigated chaos, arresting protesters, and empowering hoodlums, some lives were lost, and we mourned. But for the first time in so long, I felt such pride in being Nigerian. More pride than watching the super eagles soar through the world cup matches before their inevitable quarter-final defeat. More pride than watching our music industry take over the world. I fear it was more pride than Nigeria will ever give me again. Worse than the pride, we began to hope, we knew better but hope creeps up on you and takes your will away.

Lekki Tollgate became a de facto base of operations, the atmosphere was almost like a carnival, infectious. Nigeria struck when the Lagos state Governor announced a curfew, we watched online as videos were shared of soldiers driving towards the toll gate, videos of officials cutting off the CCTV, fearing the worst but hoping we were wrong. Hundreds of protesters sat, waving the Nigerian flag, singing the anthem of the country that would happily spill their blood without remorse, fighting for their freedom, fighting for the future of the country that would soon turn on them.

We watched in horror on Instagram live, as soldiers shot at the people they swore to protect. We watched as they ran for cover, as they screamed in pain. We heard their bodies hit the ground as they were executed like Boko haram terrorists. We saw a man die as the soldiers blocked the only route for the waiting ambulance. We watched the army deny even being there, consistently gaslighting us while targeting protesters, seizing passports, and arresting innocents. Why were we surprised? It was not the first time Nigeria had deployed the army against her people, the Shiites and Odi people are but two examples of their many atrocities.

Without time to recover, Nigeria struck again, security forces murdering a yet unknown number of people over a number of days in Oyigbo. The familiar saying of “security” operatives in Nigeria “I will kill you here and nothing will happen” is never more chilling than when we watch them do it on a large scale with no repercussions, but rather, blatant encouragement from the commander in chief as he threatens the Nigerian people on a pre-recorded speech. The deflation and mass depression was palpable in online spaces, the jokes were all tinged with sadness, despondence, and a distinct lack of hope. I almost regretted hoping.

I am writing this because Nigeria struck today. The menace of Boko Haram has been ongoing for so long, Nigerians tend to forget we are currently at war. We awoke to news of several women kidnapped in the north as is now the norm, and over forty-three farmers murdered in their fields. We saw the men wrapped in funeral shrouds as prayers were said for their eternal soul and when I thought I’d seen the worst I stumbled on pictures of some men as they were found in the field. I promise, you have not seen anything quite as inhumane and yet the evil was perpetrated by humans.

To be Nigerian is to live in fear of being attacked by terrorists but still get on with life because if they don’t kill you, hunger might. To be Nigerian is to fear a person in uniform, especially if they have a gun. To be Nigerian is to wait with anxiety until your loved ones come home or call you from their destination to confirm they have not been kidnapped. To be Nigerian is to spend your third hour in Lagos traffic, hoping your car and its occupants will not be the next to be crushed by poorly secured shipping containers on even poorer roads. To be Nigerian is to watch your business crumble as you buckle underneath the weight of endless taxes and levies while struggling to source raw materials despite poor access to forex and closed borders. To be Nigerian is to take dangerous routes abroad or end up a modern-day slave in another country just to care for your family. To be Nigerian is to watch from “sane” countries as you constantly worry over aging parents, friends, and relatives who have refused or are unable to leave like you did. To be Nigerian is to exist in a constant state of anxiety, it is to be born into trauma.

Despite it all, Nigerians in diaspora flock home every December, painting their towns red, with friends they saw last Christmas. Many return home for their weddings or casual holidays and plan to retire there when the time comes. Nigerians love Nigeria. How can they? Well, how can they not? Nigeria is more than its systems, it is the people and while people are the ones that oppress us, the people are also the best part, full of love and beauty. To be Nigerian is to find humour in any situation. To be Nigerian is to find a community wherever you go in the world. To be Nigerian is to host large weddings for your parents’ friends and indulge them while they drive you up the wall. To be Nigerian is good food, great music, dodgy but entertaining movies. To be Nigerian is all we know.

Most of us will admit to being in an abusive relationship with Nigeria, she strikes us repeatedly then gives us shreds of love, just enough to hope that this time it might be different, maybe we can change her. She holds on to things we love, making it harder for us to leave. We hate her, almost as desperately as we love her. Being Nigerian is hard, traumatic, exhilarating, exciting, and all shades of confusing. While I run from her and try to take breaks from her, I will never be free from her. I don’t know if I want to be.