REPORTER’S DIARY: #EndBadGovernance: Dodging death as SSS operatives spray us with bullets

Saturday was an unusual yet not an unexpected workday in the life of a journalist. It was the third day of the #EndBadGovernanceInNigeria protest, and the air was thick with tension. The memories of the previous days’ harassment of peaceful protesters and journalists by security agents loomed. Some of my colleagues, family members and many citizens were freaking out, unsure of what the day would bring.

Nigerians began the protest, called by different names including ‘hunger protest’, ‘hardship protest’, and ‘End Bad Governance in Nigeria protest’ on Thursday against President Bola Tinubu’s handling of the economy that triggered rising costs of living. They also expressed discontent with the lack of sensitivity on the part of public officeholders and, generally, the absence of good governance in the country.

My colleagues and I were assigned to cover the protest at the Moshood Abiola Stadium in Abuja. The movement was gaining momentum, not necessarily because of the number of protesters but because of the people it kept off the streets and the businesses it shut amid the rising spectre of violence.

We arrived at the Moshood Abiola Stadium at 9:14 a.m. on Saturday, finding no protesters. But by 9:54 a.m., a small group had gathered, their chants echoing far into the distance, far away from the stadium. We were in the thick of it, capturing raw emotions and powerful images.

The crowd was peaceful but bursting with anger and frustration. We had just finished interviewing a young protester when the atmosphere changed drastically.

At 11:35 a.m., without warning, the police began dispersing protesters who were sitting on the ground. Tear gas canisters exploded nearby, causing panic. The acrid smoke burned my eyes and throat as I struggled to maintain composure and continue recording.

Caught in the chaos, my colleagues and I dodged protesters and police, seeking temporary refuge across the highway from the stadium. We tried to catch our breath and reassess the situation.

The police were relentless, ordering peaceful protesters to move into the stadium and firing canisters at those who refused. The situation escalated rapidly.

We decided to head back to our vehicle. The road had become a battleground, with more police officers arriving. We moved quickly, trying to stay out of sight.

At 12:15 p.m., as we reached our car, agents of the State Security Service (SSS), Nigeria’s secret police, appeared. Fully hooded, they emerged from their vehicles and marched toward us. They fired at our vehicle, the bullets piercing the metallic body. We ducked instinctively, adrenaline pumping. Three shots rang out, each one driving us into panic.

Despite our jackets clearly marking us as journalists, they fired as if with intent to kill, or at the very least, showed indifference to the possibility of our being killed.

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Miraculously, none of us was hit. We managed to start the car and sped away, hearts pounding and minds racing. The realisation of how close we had come to death was overwhelming.

The drive back to the office was silent. Each of us was lost in thoughts, processing the near miss. We had no idea if the protesters who fled into the bush were safe or had been killed.

Back at the office by 1:34 p.m., we recounted our ordeal, still shaken but grateful to be alive. The footage we captured was harrowing, a stark reminder of the dangers we face as journalists. Our commitment to telling the truth had never felt more perilous.

As I sat down to write this diary entry, the day’s events replayed in my mind: the protest, the tear gas, the gunshots—each moment etched in my memory. We had escaped with our lives, but the fight for justice and unravelling the truth continued.

Saturday was not just a stark reminder of the risks inherent in journalism but also of the profound importance of the profession. Without us, the deadly actions of the SSS operatives and other security forces could have gone undocumented. I was exhausted but resolute as I prepared for bed later that day. I drifted off to a fitful sleep, more determined to make journalism count.