Death Trumpeters of Lagos

Grudgingly, I emptied what was left in my almost empty pockets, and gave it to the gatekeepers at the entrance gates.
I had simply wanted to take a stroll on the shores of the beaches that lined my old neighborhood;  the shores of a city that is also my home.
It was then that I discovered that my old playgrounds have now been willed to princes and princesses.
Cursing under my breath, I screamed at the gods that allowed this to happen.
How and when did the shores of an Ocean that I once played on, become a gated playground that excluded me, and others like me?

As I pondered these misfortunes that has befallen me and others like me; I  reminisced the gentle, but violent waves of Bar Beach doing their synchronized rhythmic endless slow, and never ending natural dance.
I recalled standing on these shores, wondering where the oceans go. I recall admiring the majestic blue ocean and its beauty that was there for commoners, princes and princesses to enjoy; but now, excludes commoners like me. The more I thought about it, the more my anger for what I am being asked to accept as a norm, became unacceptable.  

Lost in these burning thoughts, only awakened by my stares at skimpily dressed goddesses enjoying the cool breeze, while tempting men who gazed at their curvy shapes and enticing cleavages; I failed to notice their approach until they were standing right behind me; a crowd of angry men wearing blood drenched garbs.
Like the kick of an angry mule, they swung at me, yelling, “Go home! You don’t look like us”!
Halfway down from the punch, I looked again at the crashing waves;  but all I saw was red rivers of grief, tears and sorrow.  Dazed and confused, I took a final glance, to reassure myself that my sight was not failing me; but still, all I saw was same color as the blood that oozed from a deep cut slightly above my upper lips.

Sliding into coma, I muttered, "I am one of you! I grew up here! My home is not too far from here"! The more I protested, the harder the men in blood drenched garbs struck as they dragged my now limp body  along the crowded beaches.  Onlookers watched; some approvingly at the treatment the "stranger" had gotten, but I also noticed the anguish and disapproval on the faces of many.

As they lifted and violently threw me into a heap of other bodies; I then realized, I was one of the lucky few; because, on my left was a heap of dead bodies they had already murdered. I struggled not to look at the faces of the dead, but, It dawned on me, those are the bodies of my neighbors, at one time. The vast pool of blood that surrounded the dead bodies, once again, reaffirmed the color of blood my eyes had seen earlier. At one time, they were peaceful neighbors; but now, their lifeless bodies reminded me of the evils that hatred inspires.

Bruised, bleeding, but barely still alive, a song by Bongos Ikwue ran through my head. "These Pickpockets of Lagos, they don't blow no trumpets", he once sang. That was then, I said to myself; these days, they do; someone has given them trumpets; the trumpets of death. The beaches I once played on are now private enclaves for the wealthy. The streets I once walked are now, playgrounds for murderers preying on the neighbors I once had. The more I thought about it, the louder I heard Bongos sing, “oh, these Pickpockets, they don’t blow no trumpets…”!
The trumpets of death are now blown rather loud by murderers in blood drenched garbs fighting for ethnic purity, while dancing on streets littered with bodies of their neighbors from villages on the other side of the beaches I once played on; in a city we once shared and still share.