How I Rode Into Police/Protesters Clash Today
The midday Makurdi sun beat down mercilessly as I cycled towards the IBB Way. My usual route took me past the bustling new market, the air thick with the aroma of spices and sizzling meat. Today, however, a detour was necessary. The sound of distant shouts and whistles drew me away from the familiar chaos of the market, towards the APC secretariat.
Curiosity, a weakness I readily admit, tugged at me. I steered my bike closer, the shouts growing louder. I neared the secretariat, the red and blue party flags a beacon amidst the dusty streets. Suddenly, the air crackled. Shouts pierced the market din, sharp and panicked. One passenger in a bus yelped, "Trouble! Turn around!"
Too late. A wave of bodies surged forth - young men mostly, faces grim, a few wielding sticks and stones. Ahead, a line of police, their shields glinting, braced themselves. My heart hammered against my ribs. Nowhere to go. I was caught in the crossfire.
A rock whizzed by, shattering a car window. I whimpered, cowering on my bike. Chaos reigned. Police whistles blared, a tear gas canister arced, releasing choking fumes. The crowd roared back, defiant.
The governor's ban on political gatherings in the state had done nothing but pour fuel on the fire. They said it curbed violence, but to those whose voices were already stifled, it felt like a fist slamming shut.
Blindly, I gunned the bike engine, swerving around a fallen barricade. The acrid tang of tear gas stung my eyes, tears streaming down my face. I clung to my faith, my voice almost a terrified squeak.
Somehow, I broke through the turmoil, bursts of adrenaline propelling me past the worst of the melee. Reaching a side street, I finally pulled over, gasping for air.
"They just want their say," a passenger in a close by bus croaked, his face pale. "Just a chance." I nodded silently, the lump in my throat mirroring his fear and frustration.
I sat there, the rumble of distant clashes fading. The governor meant well, maybe. But the road to the party supporters voice in Benue was paved with stones, and passions blazed hotter than any ban could extinguish.
My bike and I, we were just humble witnesses caught in the storm, survivors of a day when democracy's voice turned hoarse with shouting.
Curiosity, a weakness I readily admit, tugged at me. I steered my bike closer, the shouts growing louder. I neared the secretariat, the red and blue party flags a beacon amidst the dusty streets. Suddenly, the air crackled. Shouts pierced the market din, sharp and panicked. One passenger in a bus yelped, "Trouble! Turn around!"
Too late. A wave of bodies surged forth - young men mostly, faces grim, a few wielding sticks and stones. Ahead, a line of police, their shields glinting, braced themselves. My heart hammered against my ribs. Nowhere to go. I was caught in the crossfire.
A rock whizzed by, shattering a car window. I whimpered, cowering on my bike. Chaos reigned. Police whistles blared, a tear gas canister arced, releasing choking fumes. The crowd roared back, defiant.
The governor's ban on political gatherings in the state had done nothing but pour fuel on the fire. They said it curbed violence, but to those whose voices were already stifled, it felt like a fist slamming shut.
Blindly, I gunned the bike engine, swerving around a fallen barricade. The acrid tang of tear gas stung my eyes, tears streaming down my face. I clung to my faith, my voice almost a terrified squeak.
Somehow, I broke through the turmoil, bursts of adrenaline propelling me past the worst of the melee. Reaching a side street, I finally pulled over, gasping for air.
"They just want their say," a passenger in a close by bus croaked, his face pale. "Just a chance." I nodded silently, the lump in my throat mirroring his fear and frustration.
I sat there, the rumble of distant clashes fading. The governor meant well, maybe. But the road to the party supporters voice in Benue was paved with stones, and passions blazed hotter than any ban could extinguish.
My bike and I, we were just humble witnesses caught in the storm, survivors of a day when democracy's voice turned hoarse with shouting.
