Once Upon A Time In Nigeria - by Danielle Daniel

Once upon a time in Nigeria—not in the age of talking tortoises,but in a very real moment in history.It was the late 1960s.And this country was still learning how to stay together.The country had recently become independent but was already breaking apart.Different regions.Different ethnic groups.Different fears.In the Southeast, a new nation was declared—Biafra.And just like that, Nigeria was at war with itself.In a small town not far from Enugu,there lived a girl named Amara.Amara did not understand politics.She did not know what secession meant.But she understood hunger.She understood that food was becoming scarce.That the roads were no longer safe.That the sky was no longer just the sky.It carried danger.Planes—loud birds tearing through the air.She did not understand why the ground trembled when they passed,or why her mother would shout, “Inside!”whenever the engines roared overhead.One afternoon, Amara followed her older brother, Chike,to a relief center run quietly by aid workers.There, she saw something she would never forget—a long line of children, far too thin,waiting patiently for a bowl of food.They did not cry.That was the worst part.Chike squeezed her hand.“Don’t stare.”Amara looked away.But the image stayed.Weeks passed.Hunger sharpened.Their father left to find food.He never returned.Nights filled with distant gunfire.Days with quiet uncertainty.But Amara still dreamed.She watched the planes—those loud birds—even when they frightened her.She dreamed of flying away on one.Taking her mother.Taking Chike.Leaving the noise behind.Amara dreamed of quiet.Amara never got to fly.Her community burned in the night.And she died in her sleep—alongside her mother and her brother. Once upon a time in Nigeria—not in the distant past,but in a time still fresh in memory.It was 2020.A pandemic year.In Lagos, there lived a university student named Tunde.Tunde was like many young Nigerians—full of plans,full of hustle,quietly frustrated, but still hopeful.“Just give me a few years,” he would say.“I’ll figure it out.”He had heard of SARS.Everyone had.Stories passed around, warnings disguised as jokes:Don’t dress too well.Don’t carry your laptop at night.Don’t look like you have money.It sounded absurd—until it wasn’t.One evening, returning from a friend’s place,Tunde and his roommate were stopped at a checkpoint.Questions turned sharp.Then aggressive.Their phones were searched.Their appearance—nice clothes, smartphones—suddenly became suspicion.They were released.But something had shifted in Tunde.“This isn’t normal,” Tunde said quietly that night.“It shouldn’t be normal.”Then came the videos.The outrage.The hashtag—End SARS.This time, Tunde didn’t just watch.He joined.At the Lekki Toll Gate, he met Zainab.She handed him a bottle of water like they had always known each other.“You’ve been shouting all day,” she said. “Drink.”He laughed. “You too.”Day after day, they returned.Then came the night.The atmosphere changed first.The lights went out.People sat on the ground,waving flags,singing the national anthem.Tunde stood beside Zainab.“Nothing will happen,” someone said—like a prayer.Then—gunshots.Panic tore through the crowd.People ran, stumbled, screamed.Some froze.Some fell.Tunde grabbed Zainab’s hand.“Run!”They tried.But in the chaos—the pushing, the fear—hands slipped.Tunde turned back.That moment was enough.He never got his few more years.He bled out on the ground,beneath a flag he believed in. Once upon a time in Nigeria—not long ago,not far away.In a small community on the outskirts of Kaduna,there lived a boy named Sadiq.Sadiq loved school.Not just for his friends,but because it felt like a doorway—a way out,a way forward.“You carry your books like they’re gold,”his mother would tease.To him, they were.But things began to change.People stopped staying out late.Conversations dropped into whisperswhenever unfamiliar motorcycles passed.Parents began walking their children to school—even the older ones.“Things aren’t like before,” his mother said.He would only nod. One morning, the air felt heavier.School had just begunwhen the sound came—motorcycles, many of them,louder than usual.Teachers froze.Students looked at one another.Then shouting.Then fear.Sadiq was taken.Along with others.Back in the village,silence settled like a storm that refused to pass.Mothers gathered to pray.Fathers who rarely criedsat with their heads in their hands.Sadiq’s mother stopped sleeping.Stopped eating.But she did not stop hoping.The story spread.People spoke.Organizations called for action.But hope, sometimes,is not enough.Sadiq never came home. Once upon a time in Nigeria—but the story keeps repeating.Different names.Different years.Same ending.Once upon a time in Nigeria…and somehow,nothing has changed.

Other insights from Danielle Daniel

Referral Earning

Points-to-Coupons