by Margaret-Mary Osiobor

The events of that day are still quite vivid in my memory. It was a warm sunny Sunday afternoon; my sisters and I were home alone. The eldest was making a painting for her fine art class, and my immediate elder sister and I, quite fascinated, were watching her keenly. Our parents had gone out to visit my brother who was away at boarding school.

When we heard the first blast and felt the tremors that followed, we were shocked; we had never heard or felt anything like it before so I ran out to the balcony with the aim of discovering the cause of the bang.

Not long after, the first was followed by yet another bang. Frightened, I ran back into the protective arms of my eldest sister. Although she was barely sixteen, she was the only visible “adult” available to us.

Frightened by subsequent blasts, we scampered down the stairs, out the door, and into the street where we were greeted by a large crowd of people obviously confused and curious about the explosions.

Several panic-induced guesses as regards the cause of the bangs were flying around: “It’s an attempt by the military to overthrow the civilian government”, “It’s a continuation of the Civil War”. The most common and believable of all, “The world is coming to an end!”

Still in our confused and helpless state, we saw a throng of people running towards vegetation beyond the boundary of our estate. Not knowing what else to do, we went along with them; but by what I now recognise to have been divine providence, my sister stopped us just at the beginning of the road leading into the vegetation.

Confused as to why she would do such when it seemed that the world was coming to an end, I attacked her with a barrage of questions and accusations:  “Why are we stopping?”, “Why can’t we go on with them? They seem to know where they’re headed.”, “Do you want us to die?”. I kept on telling her to take us with them. Somewhere in my innocent mind I was convinced that if we stayed at that spot the explosions would eventually catch up with us. Tired of my pestering, my eldest sister told me to be quiet. By that time, all I could do was offer up to God what prayers a six-year-old could.

We remained at that spot for what seemed to be a few hours, watching the enormous explosions redden the sky, feeling the earth quake under our feet, listening to the sound of shattering glassware from houses nearby, and watching as people ran past us into the vegetation just beyond the estate with whatever valuables they could muster.

Just standing there doing nothing about the situation in which we found ourselves, I was convinced that we were going to die. However, luck seemed to smile on us as the explosions eventually subsided. We returned home and were greeted by shattered windows, sliding doors, fallen ceiling sheets, and our dog seated comfortably in the kitchen.

Refusing to let our imaginations run wild as regards the fate of our parents who went to pay our brother a visit, all we could do was hope, pray, and wait for their return. Not one of us heaved a sigh of relief until the hoot of my father’s horn heralded their safe arrival. When the eventually drove in, we were all thankful that we were spared.

Sitting as one in the family lounge and watching the evening news, we later discovered that a minor fire broke out at a Mammy market in the Ikeja Cantonment, and due to the lack of adequate and quick fire response services, it spread to the main armoury where munitions were stored, hence the terrifying explosions.

That day, many lives were lost. It was reported that some were consumed by the fires, some killed by collapsed buildings, while others were trampled upon by the stampede that ensued as people tried to escape the explosions and raining debris.

Undoubtedly, the most painful of all was the additional number of people who met their ends while trying to cross over to a plantation they thought would provide them with a safe haven. Unknown to them, a canal covered by weeds bordered this plantation. So seeking an escape from death, they ran straight into its jaws.

When we discovered that we could have been part of these ones unlucky ones had our sister not stopped us where she did; our joy and that of our parents could not be contained.

Sometimes, I cannot help but wonder how those directly affected fared afterwards. Despite the fact that we lived at Mende, several kilometres away from the Cantonment, we still experienced the traumatic effects of the event. How much more those who were injured, displaced, separated from their loved ones or abandoned at hospitals that could not care for them. And what about those who lost their loved ones and family members?

Fourteen years after, several questions remain unanswered: what has been the plight of children who lost their parents that day? Or people who still throw flowers into the Oke-Afa canal in honour of the memory of their lost loved ones? And let us not forget those who lay wreathes each year at the memorial wall built in honour of the victims. An unending nightmare it must be.

That day, the 27^th of January 2002, will remain the bloodiest in the history of the Lagos Metropolis. A day in which over a thousand lives were lost in peace time, destinies cut short, dreams snatched and families separated, never to be re-united again. I admit that my family was lucky to have come out of it unscathed but the same cannot be said of others.

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This entry was submitted as part of the Nigerian Voices competition organized by YNaija.com.

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