Leaving home that Wednesday morning to cover a protest in Lagos, it never occurred to me that I could go so close to losing my life. Yet that was exactly what happened.
On 28 January, a Wednesday, I joined residents of waterfront communities as they marched from Ikeja Underbridge through Awolowo Road to the Lagos State House of Assembly in Alausa. They were protesting demolitions and forced evictions that have displaced families and entire communities.
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The rally went ahead even though the Lagos State Police Command had rejected the notification. From the start, officers maintained a heavy presence, trailing the protesters and, as I would soon find out, watching journalists like me.
Organised by the Coalition Against Demolition, Forced Eviction, Land Grabbing, and Displacement, the protesters carried placards reading: “Save Our Souls” and “Stop the Killings, Stop Demolition of Our Homes.” At the time, everything seemed peaceful — and my task seemed simple: observe, document, and tell their story.
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Police officers deliberately attacked other reporters and me under the direct command of the Lagos State Commissioner of Police, Moshood Jimoh.
They pushed us into the crowd of protesters while firing teargas canisters all around. I could barely breathe. My eyes burned. I gasped for air and repeatedly told the officers, “I cannot breathe. I am a journalist.” It did not matter.
As I struggled to speak, one officer fired a teargas canister directly at me, however, it struck the ground in front. The blast threw me off balance and engulfed me in smoke.
Pain shot through my chest, and every breath felt like fire. This was no accident. It was a deliberate attack on someone who was simply doing their job.
Around me, chaos unfolded. Protesters, including children and elderly women, fled in panic. Some were injured. I saw blood stains on the ground — evidence of police brutality. I have also seen photographs of protesters harmed during the demonstration. Yet the officers continued advancing, seemingly intent on intimidation.
Even in the midst of this, I noticed a strange and disturbing sight: tears were streaming from the eyes of some of the officers firing teargas. They coughed violently, but continued shooting. It was jarring — men overcome by the very force they were unleashing on civilians.
I have faced similar police aggression before. While covering the #EndBadGovernance protest in Abuja in August 2024, I encountered harassment and intimidation from security forces. During the protest, triggered by the hardship and high cost of living, operatives of the police and the State Security Service (SSS), indiscriminately fired teargas and live ammunitions towards us, journalists. I documented my harrowing experience dodging bullets during the protest to stay alive. One of my colleagues also narrated our shared near-death experience here.
I never imagined it would happen again, here in Lagos, under different circumstances. Yet history repeated itself terrifyingly: being pushed into teargas, shot at while doing my job, and forced to move despite gasping for air. This is not just about one protest, one city, or one day — it is a pattern that threatens journalists across Nigeria.
I couldn’t help but wonder: Do they truly understand their role in a democracy? We are the same organisations that routinely cover their events, turn their statements into stories, and amplify their work to the public. We are not the enemy. Yet, on that day, the police acted as if we were.
Protesters remained peaceful throughout.
They did not engage in violence. Their aim was to speak, to be heard, to demand that the demolitions that displaced families and left communities homeless be halted. Yet they were met with force: teargas, gunfire, and brutality.
I left the scene with burning eyes, a heavy chest, and a renewed sense of responsibility. But more than that, I left with an undeniable reality: in Nigeria today, reporting the truth — being a witness to events that affect citizens’ lives — can make you a target. Even for the institutions you cover, the very ones whose statements become your stories, your notebooks can mark you for attack.
READ ALSO: Makoko residents, civil society protest Lagos demolitions, allege deaths, rights violations
This was not just a failure of judgement. It was a failure of accountability, training, and restraint. It was a stark reminder of the human cost when power is wielded recklessly.
That day, the teargas did not just choke protesters. It choked press freedom. And it left me, and anyone who witnessed it, with a question that I cannot shake: if those entrusted to protect citizens’ rights cannot respect the press — the very bridge between government and people — what hope is there for democracy?
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