By the time this letter reaches you, you must have forgotten about me and adapted to a life that doesn't include me. The aim of this letter is not to disturb your peace or plunge you into a mourning mood, it's more than 30 days since they murdered me.
If you grew up in Nigeria, you must've come through injustice in one way or the other, oppression is becoming a norm in my father's land. I was born in 1994, and by the year 2007, I was old enough to understand the situation in Nigeria where injustice and oppression have become the order of the day.
Naturally, human beings prune injustice, I was also nurtured like that, I was very allergic to injustice and oppression. I have hated injustice all my life, indeed "injustice is so painful".
For a sane human being with a conscience, Nigeria is probably the worst place to grow up. Both the ruled and the rulers irritate me, the rulers are so ruthless to be merciful and the ruled are too coward that they become enablers.
The thought of having to live in this situation almost got me depressed, I was becoming a loner, and I was becoming aimless and hopeless. That was the moment the Almighty rekindled me and I end up being among the followers of Sheikh Zakzaky
The movement of Sheikh Zakzaky which stood against injustice, the ideological concept of the movement, and the principles and values of the movement have given me purpose, aim, hope and goal. I started feeling alive. It has given me something to live for.
I was born in Sokoto, there is a village called Gangam, under Shagari local govt, my maternal ancestors were from there, I did my primary school there and secondary in Yabo. I was a dentist, I had my diploma from the school of health and technology in Kaduna.
When the govt intolerance of Sheikh Zakzaky's movement grew and attacked him in 2015, during the famous Zaria Massacre, I hated myself for not being there, for not being able to give protection to the prescient leader who has given solace to my being.
I was guilty of my inaction. I was continuing my education when the daily Free Zakzaky protest started in Abuja, which gives me relief and provides an opportunity for me to stand with my leader who, without a doubt is the solution to the looming and deteriorating situation of this country.
The daily Free Zakzaky protest was subjected to continuous attack by the security forces. It was always a situation of uncertainty, many of my friends lost their lives to these attacks. One could only wonder why is a peaceful protest being subjected to this cruelness and barbarism. Something that never ceases to exist in our minds is, that the killers that perpetuated Zaria Massacre and kills our friends in Abuja street would never relent until they make our fate similar.
On the 22nd of July, 2019, like any other working day, we were back on Abuja Street, Federal Secretariat for the protest. Unknown to us, the armed-to-the-teeth killer Nigerian police are determined more than ever shed our blood. It was a carefully planned massacre, a move to bring an end to our consistent protest which exposes them as the criminals that they are.
We went with words, they answered with bullets. They rained us with bullets, and they instantly killed and injured many of us. Shahida Batula was shot in the head, the bullet went through her forehead, damaged her skull and pulled away her brain. Batula. That's how they killed her, she was 21.
After this barbarism they went to the hospital where injured people are having treatment including me, they clenched us with life-threatening injuries and dumped us in Sars headquarters. That's how they left us in a cell with no medical care, some of our friends succumb to the injuries and passed away before our eyes. Today marks the 3rd year since.
Just like any other person, the bond between me and my mother is indescribable. I won't go into the details of what makes us more intimate, but my mother couldn't bear the news of my arrest. That gives her a heart attack. She was always praying for my release, she couldn't bear the absence of the apple in her eyes.
After a while, they transfer us to Kuje Prison. My mother has waited enough, she can no longer hold it. My mother died months ago without us meeting ever again. My mother.
When the decorated terrorist attacked Kuje prison last month, the end was near. It was too sudden, how the gunshots started, the RPGs and gurnets flying around. It was chaos with many inmates unaware of what is happening and what to do
I am not a criminal, I'm a political prisoner, an innocent. So many people were shocked, that they run away. I couldn't, I stayed back, thinking I would be safe. I was indeed safe until the terrorist ended their operation and left.
We were safe, I was safe until when the arrival of uniformed soldiers, the real terrorist, I'm innocent, Army is here, although they are the killers of Batula and many more of our friends, but the scenario is different. We are not protesting, we are being held, and it keeps ringing in my head that I'm safe.
Unknown to me that the soldiers too were there on a mission, unlike Batula whom they imploded her brain and left her to bleed to death, mine was different; it was too fast, and the bullet didn't even give me a chance to realise I was shot, that I was dying, that today is the day, that I'm meeting my dead mother, my massacred friends. It happened so fast. Here I'm with my loved ones, killed, massacred, oppressed. I'm currently in heaven, with no remorse or regret, but my corpse is still withheld. I'm denied proper burial. The end. Goodnight!
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