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Come What May

Michael Emeka

    A knock came at my door. The gentleness of it told me who it was.
    ‘Mama, it’s open.’ I pulled on a red T-shirt over the blue denim I was wearing as the door creaked open and my mother’s head appeared around its edge.
    ‘Ebee ka i na-aga? Where are you going?’ Her forehead creased up as she glared at me.

‘I’m going out.’ I used both of my hands to smooth out the creases on the T-shirt, my eyes fixed on the floor. ‘I’m going to see Ikenna, in the next street.’
    She waited, saying nothing. She knew I was lying because I always kept my gaze glued to the ground whenever I lied to her as a little boy. As an adult now, I lifted my face and looked straight at her, thinking I could convince her of the veracity of my words.
    Her gentle eyes searched my determined ones. ‘You know I know you’re lying to me.’
    Chuckling, I looked away. ‘I’m just going out.’
    ‘These are tough times as it is. I hope you won’t join the protests.’
    ‘No.’ I shook my head, looking up at her. Her lips were pursed in a gesture of displeasure and her eyes slits. ‘No, ma,’ I repeated, trying to reassure her.
    ‘Just so you know, nothing good will come out of these protests. Our politicians are mulish and wicked. They live in abundance while their people live on less than a dollar a day.’ As I made towards the door, she opened it wider. ‘Make sure you don’t go to protest. They might send soldiers to shoot the protesters, as is the norm in this country.’
    ‘Yes, ma.’
#
    In my present mood, I didn’t care if the soldiers came, I didn’t care if they shot at unarmed protesters. I wanted my voice heard, I wanted to join it to the chorus of the thousands of youths whose ground-shaking chants of ‘End SARS!’ I could hear even from a mile away. How could I vote you into office and not be able to express my grievance to you when things fall apart around us under your watch? No. We will stand our ground and they must hear our voices, come what may.
    Reaching the protest site, which was a popular T-junction, the sight that met my gaze humbled me. A sea of youths stretched in various directions. They punched the air with fisted right hands in unison and bellowed, ‘End SARS!’ This moved me to tears, for I’d never seen anything like this in Nigeria. The atmosphere was heady, the air pulsating with the collective energy of the thousands of aggrieved citizens gathered. Religious and tribal differences did not exist in this assembly. There were no Christians and no Muslims, no Igbo, Hausa, or Yoruba. We were united by our collective hurt, our suffering, by injustice and poverty.
    Tears flowed from my eyes as I lifted my right hand in the air. As much as the tears were for this unprecedented show of unity between my countrymen, they were also for the many lives cut short prematurely, the many lives ruined by the notorious Special Anti-robbery Squad. Some people recognized me and crowded around me. While some of them patted my back and clucked in sympathy, others went as far as asking, ‘How did it happen?’
#
    Obino swilled his beer, chuckled at the same time to a joke Chime had made and then coughed as some beer went the wrong way. Chime roared with laughter at the other man’s misfortune while I gazed in silence as Obino tried to clear his airways.
    ‘So your mother didn’t teach you to avoid fooling around while eating or drinking,’ I reproached facetiously. I wasn’t laughing, but as Obino glanced at me through red, tear-stained eyes, he saw the barely concealed humour in my eyes and smiled.
    I pushed back my chair and rose. ‘Excuse me.’ My bladder was nearly bursting. Wending my way through the ranks of white and coloured plastic tables and chairs occupied by other customers, I made my way to the urinary at the back of the beer parlour. Loud music blaring out of the giant speakers placed at strategic locations in the place tailed me to the urinary and stayed with me until I finished relieving myself.
    Breathing a deep sigh, I walked back towards our table and came to a disorderly halt halfway there when I saw the guys were no longer alone.
    Standing opposite to Obino and Chime were three rough-looking men, dressed in black T-shirts and pairs of blue denim. Eyes bloodshot and lips black, they gripped their government-issue AK-47 rifles carelessly, looking like a band of ruffians. Printed in front of their black T-shirts were the words: Special Anti-robbery Squad. On their backs were SARS, printed in bold letters.
    ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
    Chime looked at me. ‘They said they want to arrest me, that I’m a robber and a fraudster.’
    I chuckled. ‘They’re joking, right?’ I looked at the men as they glowered at us. ‘This is a joke, abi?’
    ‘We have reliable intelligence your friend here is a criminal,’ said the tallest of the men, a dark fellow with cheeks lined with rows of tribal marks that looked like whiskers.
    I snorted in derision. ‘The only intelligence you have is the one you’re seeing with your eyes right now. And that is the fact that Chime wears dreadlocks. That’s why you think he’s criminal. To you, Nigerian youths wearing stylish hairdos are thieves and fraudsters.’
    The men glanced around uncertainly, knowing I was right. But instead of walking away with dignity, they cocked their guns and ordered Chime to get up.
    ‘Up! And out!’ they roared, pointing their rifles at him.
    Chime rose. ‘What’s the meaning of this? What did I do?’
    ‘Move out! We’re placing you under arrest for armed robbery and fraud.’
    ‘Who did I rob?’
    ‘Move out!’ Music screeched to a halt. Noises died in the place as everyone gazed at the unfolding events.
    At Chime’s reluctance to do as they commanded him, two of the men went and began pushing him out of the place. Obino and I followed tentatively, telling the men to leave him alone.
    Outside, a loud bang sounded suddenly. Everyone cringed at the deafening and unexpected Pop! I looked around to understand what had happened. And that was when I saw Chime drop like a rag doll, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief. He spasmed and lay still, his blood spreading on the ground.
#
    ‘End SARS! End SARS! End SARS!’ Our voices rose in pitch and tempo. Countless fisted hands shot heavenwards each time. The sun was bright and hot, but nobody cared. And when news came through that the state government had imposed a twenty-four-hour curfew on the city, it did not move us.
    By seven p.m. when soldiers arrived at the scene, gripping AK-47 rifles instead of riot control gear, we stood our ground, determined that our voices must be heard. Come what may.

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