Death Trumpeters of Lagos
Cursing under my breath, I screamed at the gods that allowed this to happen. How and when did the shores of an Ocean that I once played on, become a gated playground that excluded me, and others like me?
Grudgingly, I emptied my nearly empty pockets and handed the contents to the gatekeepers at the entrance. All I wanted was to stroll along the shores of my old neighborhood, the beach that felt like home. But now, my old playgrounds had been claimed by princes and princesses.
Cursing under my breath, I screamed at the gods. When did the ocean's shores I once played on become a gated playground, that excluded me and others like me?
As I pondered these misfortunes, I reminisced about the gentle, yet violent waves of Bar Beach, doing their seemingly synchronized, rhythmic dance. I remembered standing on these shores, wondering where the ocean went, admiring its majestic beauty, once enjoyed by commoners, princes, and princesses alike. Now, it all gated, requiring admission fees to be paid. The more I thought about it, the more my anger grew.
Lost in these burning thoughts, I was only awakened by the sight of skimpily dressed goddesses enjoying the cool breeze, tempting men with their curvy shapes and enticing cleavages. Lost in these heavenly sights, I failed to notice the approach of a crowd of angry men wearing blood-drenched garbs. Like the kick of an angry mule, they swung at me, yelling, “Go home! You don’t look like us!” Halfway down from the punch, I looked again at the crashing Ocean waves, but all I saw were red rivers of grief, tears, and sorrow. Dazed and confused, I took a final glance to reassure myself that my sight wasn’t failing, but all I saw was the same color as the blood oozing from a deep cut above my upper lip.
Sliding into a coma, I muttered, "I am one of you! I grew up here! My home is not too far from here!" The more I protested, the harder the men in blood-drenched garbs struck as they dragged my now limp body along the crowded beaches. Onlookers watched; some approvingly, but I also noticed anguish and disapproval on many faces.
As they lifted and violently threw me into a heap of bodies, I realized I was one of the lucky few; because, to my left was a pile of corpses they had already murdered. Struggling not to look at the faces of the dead, it dawned on me they were once my neighbors. Once peaceful neighbors, now their lifeless bodies reminded me of the evils inspired by hatred.
Bruised, bleeding, but barely alive, a song by Bongos Ikwue ran through my head. "These pickpockets of Lagos, they don't blow no trumpets," he once sang. That was then, I thought. These days, they do. Someone has given them trumpets—the trumpets of death. The beaches I once played on are now private enclaves for the wealthy. The streets I once walked are now playgrounds for murderers preying on neighbors I once had. The more I thought about it, the louder I heard Bongos sing, “Oh, these pickpockets, they don’t blow no trumpets...” The trumpets of death are now blown loudly by murderers in blood-drenched garbs, fighting for ethnic purity, dancing on streets littered with bodies of their neighbors from villages on the other side of the beaches I once played on, in a city we once shared and still share.
