#ENDSARS: How I Mastered a New Language While Protesting
I am standing at Iwo Road, Ibadan, wearing an oversized Jelabia and Sokoto, with a black shirt underneath, in case they start shooting, and I need to disguise that I’ve never met these protesters before. My sling bag is positioned to allow me to swipe it backwards as part of my disguise and forwards to give easy access to my phone. There are about a hundred of us. I picked up a habit after watching the Benedict Cumberbatch version of the Sherlock Holmes adaptation; when you get to a place, mentally assess the people there, look for the physically strongest and physically frail, and always plot your exit as you step in.
As I was doing this calculation, I checked the time; it was 8:37 am. The place was not as full as expected. But we were optimistic. I saw some old friends, hugged, spoke my tiny voice in English, and giggled under my face…do I call it a face mask or shield? It’s a ripped shirt that I’m tying loosely around my face. I continued speaking English with a sprinkle of Yoruba: “I’m fine bro. How’re you na? Shey you dey okay? Ko ni sì Problem.”
In linguistics, they call this code-mixing. Throwing a teaspoon of pidgin in a pot of another language. I’ve done this my whole life. I grew up speaking both English and Yoruba fluently. So, that’s not a problem. Not until thirty minutes later.
We are now standing on the road. They call the place Baba Onílù (Drummer Man), famed for a drummer’s statue at the roundabout. Mr Biggs is adjacent, Lagos-Ibadan expressway is behind us, Ibadan-Iwo is a minute away. This was a perfect place to show the government we wanted them to #EndSARS. Then the smell came.
Weed always smells like sin. It smells like it wants you to lust after it, but not that much — which then makes you want to lust after it. I know that smell (don’t ask me how). I surveyed my environment to find where the smell was coming from. With my nose hidden under my face (did we agree on mask or shield?), I traced the smell. It was coming from behind me.
When I turned to confirm, about ten young men were puffing and passing two sticks among themselves. They were all sagging, had at least one visible tattoo. And they looked ‘rugged’ in the ‘street’ kind of way. One of them caught my eyes and stared intently. As if trying to intimidate me. I know this drill. He looks at you, you fidget. Then he invites you over. Begs you for money in a passive-aggressive tone that tells you “abeg give us money, but if you no give us, something fit do you.” There is only one way to defuse this kind of tension. I used it on Policemen just last week.
When someone is staring at you, hoping that you’ll fidget, don’t stare too much at them, but don’t look away. Stare at the centre of their heads. It gives you confidence and makes them feel watched and scrutinised. I had gone for an optometry visit when it started raining. Unable to head back home, I asked if there was a saloon around, and there was. I walked into it, made my hair and looked the part of a profiled yahoo boy: an oversized sweatshirt, joggers, sneakers, and cornrows. As I stepped out, I immediately walked into a couple of Policemen. Without smiling, I stared hard at them, as if daring them to do something. They looked away. I stopped a cab as I was crossing though because Police no mumu. The charm wears off faster on them. The cabman said my fare was ₦150; I didn’t haggle. Let’s go chief.
Back to the protest ground. The guy staring at me is waiting for me to yield. I don’t. His friends sense something is amiss. You see, people on the streets hate Police harassment just as we do. But even more than that, they hate judgement. They get aggressively defensive when they feel judged. And when people on the street feel judged, they get into fight mode. I sensed the tension begin to rise. If I walk away, I’ve made myself their enemy. They feel judged already. If I stay longer, it gets awkward. So I recalibrate my thoughts and instantly immersed myself in new code.
“Omo Iya Mi, Mo wa pẹ̀lú ẹ, we gather dey” (my mother’s child, I am with you, we stand together), I hailed him as I started shaking hands one after the other. Corona is hiding in shock. The thing about switching your code for people on the street is that they don’t believe you until you behave like them. These guys look like they’re going to be here from start to finish. After greeting them, I bounced a little bit. The last time I bounced, it was on a Nokia phone. I bounced hard and went to chill. Now here’s the bigger flex, when you show loyalty to people on the streets, they feel safe around you. They feel like they can connect to you. Even if you go back to your default settings (I be get inside boy 😭), they’ll understand you. They’ll protect you. And treat you as one of theirs. And that’s exactly what happened.
Hours later into the protest, after Israel-iting our way to the government secretariat in Ibadan, we sat down under the Governor’s special flyover. We waited for him to come and address the crowd. One of the ‘guys’ went to buy Schnapps. Schnapps is a dry-gin that slaps harder than your wicked Aunty when you pour stew on her favourite designer bag. I’ve seen people take a sachet of Schnapps and go from Ryan Gosling to Samuel Jackson. Schnapps is so powerful that it’s a libation item for herbalists; Schnapps is the Google translate of gods and herbalists. So, they bought schnapps.
Their delivery guy brings it out and looks around, trying to find judging eyes. I’m not a fan of substance at these protests. Because, frankly, they can be problematic. But these people are dependent on these things. What do I do? Go from “Omo Iya Mi”, to “stop taking alcohol?” Ó wrong nau. They consumed their schnapps, knowing that I was watching. But not judging. They had fun. They played. And at that moment, I was no longer trying to imitate their language; I was actually learning their way of life. These are the victims of a highly patriarchal society that places all the burdens on boys who grow up to pretend they can take the biggest beating without breaking a sweat. But that one na another story.
It’s past 4 pm now, and we are rerouting traffic away from government secretariat. Unless it’s an emergency, nobody was allowed in or out. Then I caught this bike man speeding towards us. If there was something we all agreed to at that checkpoint, it was that speeding riders would be made to push their bikes. I jumped in front of this guy, pressed his brakes and immediately turned off his engine. His key was in my pocket within seconds. I swear I don’t have prior experience. I learned how to do all of this on that day.
When I asked who he was, he said: “ọmọ iya mi, a jọ wá ní nau” (my mother’s child, we were together). I looked into his eyes, trying to figure out what was going on. Then he took his hand into his pocket and brought out nylon of consumed schnapps as a means of identification. This man that I can’t remember his face remembers mine remembers I was there when they were taking schnapps, and is now presenting nylon of consumed schnapps as identification. I now speak the language of the streets. I made it (🕺🕺🕺).
As a get-inside boy, I would smile, giggle, or outrightly laugh. But I be street boy now. Instead of showing amusement, I showed indifference. “Nà why you come dey Overspeed be that?” He threw two hands in the air and spoke animatedly, “ma binu ọmọ iya mi” (forgive me, my mother’s child). I gave him his keys and told him to slow down. He definitely raced the rest of the journey. But I was there, on the street, no longer code-mixing between two languages. I learned a new code entirely. And it is called streets.
Aluta continua my dear. I speak the streets. I belong to the streets now.
