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You are walking through the bustling state plaza, the air thick with the scent of roasted corn, ripe mangoes, and frying akara. Traders call out to passersby, haggling over prices, their voices blending into the city's constant hum. The street is alive, pulsing with movement, the kind that speaks of survival.
Then, chaos erupts.
Shouts slice through the air like blades.
"Edi oh!" (they have come oh)
"Edi oh!"
The warning spreads like wildfire, setting the place ablaze with panic. Stalls shake as hands scramble to salvage what they can. A woman grabs her stack of second-hand clothes, stuffing them into a sack with desperate speed. A pepper seller sweeps her bowls into a basin, the loose grains spilling onto the pavement like tiny red beads. Feet slap against the asphalt, dodging, sprinting, weaving through the crowd. The air fills with the frantic rustle of nylon bags, the clatter of falling goods, the wails of those who are too slow. You step aside to access the situation, trying to make sense of the whole pandemonium.
You see her then—a young girl, no older than ten, standing at the curb. The tray of sliced pawpaw; popularly known as papaya, and pineapple, neatly arranged on banana leaves, balances on her small head. Her mother had warned her never to run, never to panic, but instinct takes over. Without thinking, she bolts across the road, her slippers nearly slipping from her feet. A car screeches to a halt, the driver's horn blaring, but she doesn't stop. She leaps onto the opposite pavement, her tray teetering, a piece of pawpaw tumbling to the ground. She doesn't look back. She zoomed past, opposite you, where the beautiful yellow book store building is.
Behind her, the government officials are relentless. Their boots stomp through the market, their hands sweeping across makeshift tables, knocking them over with brutal efficiency. A wooden stand collapses under a heavy push, its wares—bottles of groundnut, sachets of pure water—spilling across the ground. One officer yanks at a vendor's umbrella, sending it tumbling into the street like a broken wing. Another smashes a plastic basin with the butt of his baton, its contents—a pile of oranges—rolling away as if in their own desperate escape.
The destruction is swift and merciless. The officials wield axes now, hacking away at the kiosks and selling stands with ruthless precision. Wood splinters, zinc sheets crumple, and makeshift tables crack under the force. A kiosk, once a neatly arranged stall of provisions, caves in as an axe buries deep into its side. The sound of tearing metal and breaking wood fills the air, mingling with the cries of displaced traders. The once-thriving marketplace is being reduced to rubble in mere moments.
In the midst of the chaos, you spot another girl, a teenager, standing a few feet away. Her phone is raised, her fingers trembling as she records the destruction. She captures the officials in their uniforms, the axes swinging, the traders begging. You can see visible the joy on her face, of a job well done, of a content beautifully ready for her fans.
Following her Camara lens, you sighted two officers dragging out a moveable stall filled with leather shoes, what boys call palms from the book shop premises. A young man in his early twenties, pleading with one of the officers, who looks reasonable. The kind man explains the unfairness of the situation if his own stall is left pardoned. It appears he ran into the yellow territory to seek asylum, but fate caught up with him. The other passionate law enforcer swings into action enforcing the law. The stall is violently pushed down, and the axe fell.
Each swing of the axe makes you feel bad, and then you had another reason why you shouldn't give up in school. Despite the hardship, the sleepless nights, coupled with boring lecturers and fear that the saying "School na scam" is true.
The passersby are split in their reactions. A group of students watches from the sidelines, whispering among themselves. Some shake their heads in sympathy, others shrug indifferently.
"Na illegal thing to hawk for here sha", a young man in a crisp shirt says, adjusting his glasses. His pigin sounds funny, as if he is forcing it, to blend in the crowd. "All these government people just dey do their work". He added, shaking his head.
But another man, a popular street agboro scoffs and in anger said; "Which kind work be that, as them dey scatter things for here, you no know say some of these people no go see food chop this evening?", the anger on his face is scary. As if his feet is exactly in each of the sellers shoes, and he knows exactly where the pain is.
"This plaza don too dey jam-packed, people wey dey sell for her come too plenty, e come dey like say na market, na why Government say make nobody dey sell for here again." The young man in glasses paused and added immediately. "Government law na di law, you no fit do anything about am, and.."
"Which kind talk be that?...", the agboro cut-in stopping him from continuing his lecture. "Na government dey feed them? as them no gree give people job, e no do them, now them dey scatter wetin they give these people small money". You know he has a point, but then, just like the young man in glasses had said, "wetin person fit do government?", you thought.
The young man in a bid to prove a point added, "omor, these people too plenty for here. Very soon bus and keke no go see were to pass. yesterday, abi day before yesterday..."
"Come, e be like you go start to dey go oh", the agboro said not giving the young man a chance to begin his story telling. You can see he is not even joking about it, as he slowly advanced towards the man on glasses.
The man too could feel that something wasn't right and asking questions, "wetin happen? I do you anything? Na your house..."
An older man who was closer to the young man, grabbed him by his shoulder. Dragging the young man aside, you heard him advice; "come dey go before person beat you for here"
"No!!!!, leave am, because say you see this ekelebe for here, you think say I no fit touch you?.." the agboro asked. "I go beat you finish, before Dem carry me go kirikiri" he added proudly.
Everyone around, including you is laughing, The thing about Nigerians, crazy specie of people. You thought.
You sighted the girl with phone again. A part of you happy that someone was recording every moment—the desperation, the anger, the sheer unfairness of it all.
However, your happiness is short-lived as the girl wasn't careful. Lost in her delight and dream of the likes and comments with dedicated followes she will be getting from this juicy content, one of the officers notices her. In two strides, he is upon her, snatching the phone from her grip with a single swipe. Her eyes widen in shock. You can see the look of realization of the implication of what just happens.
"Please Sir my phone" she bulrted out immediately.
"Gimme... Give me back my phone" she pleads, reaching out, trying to mold her English though you could hear the pigin still, but the officer ignores her.
She follows him, her voice rising in desperation.
"Sir, please! That's my only phone! I didn't do anything wrong!"
Tears well in her eyes as she watches him scroll through the videos, his face unreadable. The plaza around her crumbles, stalls dismantled, lives upturned, but all she sees is the small device in his hand—her only proof of the day's brutality. Her only voice. Her likes, and most importantly, her followes.