It was October 20, 2020—an evening forever seared into our memories. I stood among a multitude of peaceful protesters at Lekki Toll Gate, chanting, holding the Nigerian flag high, and demanding justice. The End SARS movement was our collective cry against the brutality of the Special Anti-Robbery Squad (SARS). We believed in a better Nigeria, and for days, we had gathered in unity, singing the national anthem, praying, and raising our voices for change. But that night, everything changed.

As dusk settled in, a sense of unease crept through the crowd. Around 6:30 pm, the lights around the toll gate were suddenly cut off, plunging us into darkness. The giant LED billboard, which had brightly lit the area in previous days, was turned off. At first, we didn’t understand what was happening—were they trying to silence us?

Then we heard the distant rumble of military trucks, and fear began to ripple through the crowd. Some people started retreating, but many stayed, waving flags, thinking that our symbols of peace—our flags, our chants of unity—would protect us.

But soon after, gunfire rang out. It was not a warning shot into the air; it was aimed at us, at innocent, unarmed protesters. The Nigerian army had opened fire.

Panic set in as bullets flew, piercing the air, bodies, and hearts of those standing firm for justice. I saw people fall—men, women, young ones—clutching their wounds, blood staining the ground that had once been a place of peaceful protest. The sound of screams filled the night, haunting and desperate, blending with the gunfire that wouldn’t stop.

We screamed for help, waving the flags that had now become soaked in blood. We tried to carry the injured, but the bullets kept coming. People used anything they could find—scarves, flags, hands—to stop the bleeding. Some didn’t make it. They died in front of us.

It felt like the end. The soldiers showed no mercy. The horror unfolded before our eyes, and no one could have imagined that the Nigerian government would sanction such an atrocity against its own people. There were no ambulances, no medical aid, just the deafening sound of bullets and the unshakable horror of watching lives cut short.

For hours, the toll gate, once a symbol of the capital’s hustle and progress, became a site of unspeakable violence. Many who survived will never forget the sound of the gunshots, the sight of bodies dropping, the helplessness of it all. I’ll never forget the fear that settled deep in my chest, the surreal nightmare of seeing friends, fellow citizens, mowed down for asking for the basic right to live without fear.

That night, the spirit of Lekki was drenched in blood. The toll gate that had seen so many protests, so much hope, became a graveyard of shattered dreams. We didn’t fight back because we weren’t armed; we didn’t have the power to stop the soldiers. All we had were our voices, and even they were drowned by the crack of bullets.

In the days that followed, the government denied the massacre, called it fake news, tried to erase the blood and the pain. But we remember. We carry the scars of that night with us, even those of us who walked away alive. The trauma, the nightmares—they linger.

Every year, on October 20, we remember the fallen. We honor those whose blood was shed at Lekki, whose only crime was demanding to live in a country that respects their rights. Of course, the Lekki massacre is an unerasable moment in history—above all, it’s a symbol of the ongoing struggle for freedom, justice, and dignity in Nigeria.

They tried to silence us with bullets, but the memory of that night will never be erased. It lives on in our hearts, in the cries for justice that continue to echo, and in the determination to ensure that the sacrifice of those at Lekki was not in vain.