Cheta! (Remember) - Esther Iloka.

“Wake up, dear,” mum gently nudged me.

I yawned and stretched my sore limbs as my eyelids popped open.

"Good morning, Mama," I greeted.

"Good morning, sweetie," mum said, smiling at me.

As I proceeded to fold up the brown raffia mat that was my bed, mum beckoned on Michael to come join us for the morning prayers.

Michael, my brother was already dressed, as usual. Michael was tagged the "efiko" of the family by everyone, while I was seen as just plain and ordinary.

I needed to wash the sleep off my eyeballs. If I didn't do this, I was sure to fall back to sleep while we prayed. Trust mum and her long prayers.

 I sometimes wondered why people were so gullible. Why they failed to realise that it was quite wrong to compare the prowess of two people, most especially when they were siblings. Give them room to grow and develop at their own pace. 

Despite all these, I loved my brother dearly.

"Whatever they say doesn't get to me, anyways," I said shrugging as I went back in. 

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As we ate in silence in our one room apartment, I noticed mum looked sad. What I would give to take away the sadness from those once beautiful eyes. 

Ever since dad left, wealth followed suit. I was glad for one thing though: love existed here.

We picked up our bags and kissed mum goodbye. 

While love existed in our home, school was just something else. 

Makoko Memorial School was on the first floor of a residential three storey-building. Who does that! Who let out his school for people to come live in? This could only happen in the slums!

While classes were on, we often heard Iya Sikira playing all kinds of Fuji music as she went about her daily chores, especially scraping of pots. That was her favourite.

Her pots bore the brunt because of her love for Africa Magic Yoruba and Fuji Music.

One thing could only happen when you cook and watch the TV at the same time: a burnt food!

 What about Kunle and Emeka?

Their shouts as they gambled their money, the day and their future away, if they had any, could be heard from afar. 

While our teacher taught us, our sense of hearing wasn't the only thing going on a journey. Our sense of smell went on its, too.

Different smell ranging from those of urine, refuse waste, burnt food (all thanks to Iya Sikira), and a peculiar smell we associated with Kunle and Mekus, as he was fondly called, slowly wafted it's way into our classroom. My guess would be tobacco fume, it had to be that. 

We all bore this. We had no choice.

This was the slum, our home.

Mrs. Margaret's tiny voice jolted me from my reverie. She breezed in, a radiant smile on her face. 

Mrs. Margaret made this hellish hole called school, special for me.

“Good morning, children,” she chimed.

“Good morning, Mrs. Margaret,” we all roared. 

We were definitely happy to see her. Little did we know that the day was going to leave a bitter taste on our tongues forever,

Suddenly, the walls of the class began to shake violently. 

I always wondered why people who were caught in a collapsed building or fire outbreak did nothing to try to save themselves. I thought they weren't smart. Today I realised why they never made it out. The initial fear that hits you is a paralysing one.

Those few seconds of  paralysis, if care wasn't taken, could spell doom for one. 

And this was exactly what happened.

We all sat rigid on our seats like we were glued to them. The fear was evident in our eyes as we stared at one another, my classmates, Mrs Margret. As little as we were - I was ten years - most of my classmates were, too, we could perceive the pungent smell of death.

We jolted from our self-inflicted paralysis and scampered out of the class, before we could get to the door, some part of the building came down. 

My classmates were all going down, bricks falling down on them from all sides. A handful of others and I still stood on our feet. We pushed on. I was struck on the head and felt a trickle of blood meander its way down my lips. I wiped it off, running wildly with one single thought on my mind: my brother.

I got to Michael’s class. There were lifeless bodies sprawled on the floor.

I said a silent prayer, hoping Michael wasn’t here, hoping that somehow, he had been able to leave the building in time.

 I moved to where he usually sat and saw the body of a boy lying face down. Glancing at his feet, I recognised Michael’s sandals. 

“No!” I screamed. 

“No! It couldn't be.”

 I turned his body so it was facing upward. It was!

He was beyond recognition, hideously bloody. 

I stared away, very sure his bloodied face would never leave my memory for as long as I walk this earth. My last thought before I went under was of mama. Would she survive the loss of Michael?

The acrid smell of drugs and disinfectant wafted into my nostrils and slowly my eyes opened. I was in the hospital and Mrs. Margaret sat beside me. She had a bandage round her head. 

Memories came flooding back as though recovery had opened wide its gate.

Michael was gone, leaving mum and me all alone. 

“Mrs. Margaret, where is my mum,” I asked.

Mrs. Margaret was crying softly, a look of pity on her face. Mrs. Margaret came on the bed and embraced me. She smelt of lavender, just like mum.

“It’s going to be alright, Cheta. I am here for you. I promise to stay, just the two of us.”

As she said those last words, I realised mum was gone. I wept silently, burdened by a heavy heart. What would I ever do without mum and Michael? 

The world looked bleak, tomorrow uncertain. 

I am Cheta Lawrence, a survivor of the Lagos Island building collapse which occurred on the 13th of March, 2019. A day we all pray never to experience, a dark day for Lagos and even beyond. Innocent lives were lost due to human greed and negligence to the tell-tale signs that the collapsed building wouldn’t hold out, much longer.

By – Esther Iloka