January 27, 2002
“On behalf of the military, we are sorry…efforts were being made in the recent past to try to improve the storage facility, but this accident happened before the high authorities could do what was needed” -Commander of Ikeja
We have a few days left until my third birthday. Grandpa was visiting from Ondo State, which was almost a six hour journey to Lagos. Everyone at home was so excited because it would be his first time in Lagos and we were all planning to make it a memorable one for him. My dad bought a live chicken a day before, in preparation for the sumptuous meal we were going to make for grandpa’s arrival.
I always wonder why my dad prefers to buy a live chicken over the convenience of a frozen one. Each time my dad prepares a live chicken at home, I am completely marveled by his strength and skill. There is this steady confidence in his hands as he works on it, plucking its feathers in hot water. I honestly don't think I could ever kill a chicken myself. I lack that old-school skill that seems to belong solely to his generation.
But while Dad was in the backyard dealing with the chicken, Iya ni wura (my mum) was in the kitchen. Soon, the rhythmic sound of her mortar and pestle echoed through the house. Iya ni wura was in her element, cooking one of my absolute favourite dishes; pounded yam and Egusi soup. She makes the best, without question. The rich aroma of toasted melon seeds, bleached palm oil and locust beans dances through the entire house, heavy and intoxicating. The kind of meal that makes you lick your ten fingers, chasing the very last drop of flavor, asking for more. Together, my parents were making magic, transforming a chaotic morning into a feast fit for a king.
By midday, the food was ready, the pounded yam perfectly fluffy and the Egusi soup lustrous with palm oil. We guessed that Grandpa was likely halfway down to Lagos or so we hoped, since he didn't carry a mobile phone. There was no way to know for sure and in those days, keeping in touch while travelling was not as simple as pulling a device from your pocket.
Mobile phones had only recently arrived in Nigeria, and owning one was still beyond what most families could afford. So, if Grandpa wanted to call, he would have to find one of the new GSM business centres scattered around the city. As we waited for news of his arrival, all we could do was trust that he was making good progress on the long journey to Lagos. Every time the house phone rang that afternoon, our hearts skipped a beat. Perhaps it was Grandpa calling from a GSM centre somewhere in the city, ready to tell us he had arrived safely.
While we waited for Grandpa’s arrival, Iya ni wura decided to seize the time to do my hair. My loose afro was thick, long, and notoriously stubborn. As a child, I utterly hated having my hair plaited; the sharp pain of the comb and the endless, grueling hours of sitting still felt like a punishment. Yet, I couldn't deny the magic of the aftermath. Every time iya ni wura was done with my hair, looking in the mirror made me smile. My hair was transformed into an intricate work of art, a crown woven by my mother’s hands. To pacify my tearful complaints and distract me from the pulling and pain, my parents put on the Barney & Friends show for me. This was one of my favourite TV shows after Tom & Jerry. Nothing made me forget the world faster than that big, purple dinosaur singing on our television screen.
Right in the middle of getting the television tuned, the heavy silence of our anticipation was shattered. The phone rang. We froze, and then raced to answer it. It was Grandpa! The contagious wave of joy and pure excitement that exploded on both ends of that costly GSM line was indescribable. He had arrived in Lagos safely. Quickly, Dad instructed Grandpa to hand his scribbled piece of paper and the handset over to an okada man. Dad spoke directly to the man, giving him precise navigation instructions to bring Grandpa straight to our gated house. The moment the call ended, Iya ni wura rushed to the kitchen, abandoning her comb so she could begin dishing out the steaming food. I breathed a sigh of relief, celebrating my temporary break from the pain of plaiting my hair.
At exactly 5:00 PM, the sharp buzz of the doorbell rang through the house. We didn't just walk; we sprinted downstairs to fling the front door open. The moment Grandpa saw us, his eyes lit up. Brushing past the usual adult pleasantries, he reached out for his grandchild first. Me. It was my very first time laying eyes on him in person. He was a towering, dark-skinned man, possessing a majestic stature balanced by a smile so radiantly warm it could melt a heart of stone. He was dressed in a pristine, snow-white agbada. I hesitated for a fraction of a second, worried my childhood grime would ruin the expensive fabric, but Grandpa didn’t care about his dress at all. He picked me up into his powerful arms like a feather, wrapping me in a massive hug that smelled of travel and home, showering my face with a load of kisses.
My parents, laughing with relief, began moving in his luggage which was quite an impressive mountain of bags. We gathered upstairs, offering profound prayers of thanksgiving to God for a safe journey across the states, and immediately headed down to the dining table. The long-awaited feast was finally served. We joyfully savoured every single morsel of the fluffy pounded yam and the rich, savory Egusi soup, completely captivated as Grandpa gisted us about the wild adventures of his road trip to Lagos. The food was such a spectacular achievement that both Grandpa and Dad held out their plates, eagerly asking for another serving.
With the men contentedly eating their second round, Iya ni wura gestured me back to the chair to return to the unfinished business of my hair. She flipped the TV back on, and the cheerful tunes of Barney & Friends filled the living room once more. With the comfort of a full stomach and the cartoon distractedly blurring my senses, I actually found myself enjoying the moment as her fingers worked through my hair.
Then, barely ten minutes into the show, something strange happened.
A deafening, deep-seated roar thundered through the air, followed instantly by a violent, aggressive shaking that rattled the entire house. The walls groaned. The window panes vibrated so hard they threatened to shatter. A paralyzing, icy fear gripped our hearts in an instant. I looked over at Grandpa; he sat frozen, a half-chewed morsel of pounded yam still clutched in his fingers, his eyes wide with a sudden, primitive terror. The shaking didn't stop, it grew more furious.
“Earthquake! It’s an earthquake!” someone screamed.
Instinct overrode everything. Abandoning the food and the television, we scrambled toward the stairs in a blind, chaotic panic. Even Grandpa sprinted alongside us, still holding that single, forgotten ball of pounded yam tightly in his fist as we bolted down the steps and burst out into the open air. The scene on our street was utter pandemonium. Every single neighbor ran out of their buildings, standing in the middle of the road in various states of shock, staring wildly at the sky and the vibrating earth. The air was thick with confusion and screaming. Some people fell to their knees, wailing and shouting that the heavens were falling, convinced the world was officially coming to an end.
The terrifying tremors and the rhythmic, booming echoes didn't subside until the following day. Nobody dared to step back inside. We spent the entire night outside, shivering under the Lagos sky, entirely sleepless and trapped in a state of dread. I sat on a plastic chair Dad had managed to drag downstairs, my head resting against Iya ni wura’s shoulder with exactly half of my hair neatly plaited and the other half standing completely undone, a wild afro frozen in the middle of a crisis.
As dawn broke, the violent tremors we had assumed were an earthquake finally subsided. A neighbor ran down the street holding a battery-powered radio. A crowd immediately swarmed around him, desperate for news. The radio announcer's voice cut through the radio, shattering the rumors that the world was ending or that a military coup had begun. It hadn't been an earthquake at all. A massive fire at a street market had spread into the high-caliber ammunition depot at the Ikeja Military Cantonment. The deafening roars and violent ground shaking were the result of countless military bombs and explosives accidentally detonating at the same time.
The radio went on. Then came the words from the military: “On behalf of the military, we are sorry. Efforts were being made in the recent past to try to improve the storage facility, but this accident happened before the high authorities could do what was needed.”
Then came the true horror from the incidence. It was not the shaking buildings, but what had happened to those fleeing the explosions in the darkness. Blinded by smoke and consumed by panic, families ran toward the Oke Afa canal, unaware of the danger beneath their feet. Long abandoned by the government, the canal was completely overgrown and covered in a thick blanket of water grass. In the dark, it looked exactly like a solid, grassy ground. They ran straight into it. More than one thousand precious souls rushed into the Oke Afa canal, disappearing under the weeds.
Our hearts broke into pieces as we listened to the news of parents losing children, and children losing parents, all in a matter of seconds. It was a tragedy born out of neglect. A heavy, suffocating blanket of grief fell over the entire city of Lagos. We looked at our own family, gathered safely around the dining table, and felt a profound, aching sorrow for the homes that would never be whole again. Across the city, hundreds of families were weeping by the edge of a dark canal, searching for the loved ones who would never come home.
The trauma of the night, coupled with the devastating news of such immense loss, deeply shook Grandpa to his core. He stood by the window in his pristine white agbada, now streaked with dust, staring blankly out at Lagos sky. A day that was meant to be a beautiful, joyous family reunion filled with the laughter of our very first meeting and the comforting aroma of my mother's perfect Egusi soup had instead turned into a terrifying, unforgettable nightmare. It was a memorable day, but for all the wrong, heartbreaking reasons.
Clutching his chest, his eyes wide with a quiet, lasting fear, Grandpa looked at my dad and iya ni wura. His voice was trembling but entirely firm as he made a solemn vow right then and there that he would return to the safety and peace of the village the very moment the roads cleared, and would never step foot in Lagos ever again. The city's chaotic energy, the unpredictable dangers, and the crushing weight of its tragedies were simply too much for his old heart to bear.
Slowly, Iya ni wura pulled her chair up behind me and gently picked up her comb to finish the hair she had started plaiting the day before. She didn't turn on Barney & Friends this time; the television remained off out of respect for the lives lost. As her fingers went back to the unfinished business of my hair, the sharp tug of the comb felt different. The childish complaints I had yesterday completely vanished. I sat perfectly still, suddenly realizing how incredibly lucky I was to feel the warm, protective touch of my mother’s hands at all. A quiet tear slipped down my cheek partly for the sharp sting of the comb, but mostly for the thousand souls who had lost their tomorrow while we were safely granted ours. The work of art on my head was finally finished, but the memory of that day, and the lives swallowed by the darkness, would stay woven into our hearts forever.
Until his death, grandpa never visited Lagos again. The year 2002, was the last time I saw him physically and the last memory I hold of him are the pictures of his burial ceremony.