Whispers of a nation

Nigeria is portrayed as a land of vibrant diversity as it is rich in cultural heritage and immense potential. It is also worthwhile to know that Nigeria is seen as a giant of Africa. However, underlying the surface lies a country suffocating under corruption, economic disparity, political instability, and deep societal divisions. The novel captures the voices of ordinary Nigerians. People whose struggles, hopes, and dreams form the lifeblood of the nation.

Chapter 1: "A City’s Pulse"

The air in the city was thick with the scent of diesel, sweat, and hope. Ngozi Chimezie wiped her brow as she stepped out of the Danfo bus, feeling the familiar jolt of its rickety frame hitting a pothole. The conductor yelled, “Ikeja! Ikeja! O wa o!” As passengers hurried out, dodging motorcycles that zipped by without warning. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the crowded streets, and the evening heat clung to her skin like an old, unwelcome friend.

She moved through the busy sidewalks, sidestepping hawkers who sold everything from fruits to phone chargers. "Madam, you no go buy orange? Fresh one, o!" A boy no older than twelve called out, his voice expectant. She shook her head gently as her mind was preoccupied.

Lagos was indeed alive, yes. Too alive. The city hummed with life and energy that could sweep you away if you let it. A sleek black SUV with tinted windows sped by, on one side of the street, honking aggressively, while on the other part of the street, a rusted taxi sputtered, belching thick fumes, struggling to stay on the road. The contrast the city echoed gnawed at Ngozi as she walked, her worn shoes kicking up dust on the uneven pavement.

It was more than just the vehicles, the structures, or some opulent exhibit. It was the people. The way they now regarded one another. Their eyes had taken on a certain tiredness, as though they were all bearing heavy, unseen responsibilities that were hard to describe. It concerned people who, in the face of hardship, had once laughed heartily and were now wearing tight smiles. It was no longer just a theoretical divide between the haves and the have-nots; it was a chasm that might smother hope.

She passed by a small group of men crowded near a suya stand, the smell of spiced meat tempting her. They were speaking in muffled tones, but she caught bits of their conversation.

“We all know that election in the part of the world na just wash,” one of the men muttered. “Dem don already decide the winner as usual even before the election.”

“Nigeria no go ever better,” another added, shaking his head as he handed over a crumpled naira note to the suya seller.

Ngozi’s stomach rumbled. The upcoming elections were on everyone’s lips, and the whispers were getting louder. The streets had been filled with posters and banners for months now, each candidate promising change, a better tomorrow, but the promises felt hollow and uncertain. She had lived long enough to know that promises from the politicians in Nigeria had a way of evaporating after election day. Nevertheless, she felt there might be a tiny ember of hope that maybe, just maybe, this time would be different.

She tightened her handbag as she approached the market. Her daughter, Adaora, would be home soon from school, and there were still some ingredients more to buy for dinner. As she reached the vegetable stalls, her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was a message from her friend, Ifeoma.

Ifeoma:
Did you hear? There is a protest in Surulere tomorrow. They say it’s about the economy, hardship, and hunger in the land. Are you going?

Ngozi paused for a moment as her thumb hovered over the reply button, thinking of what her response could be. She hadn’t considered joining the protests. In truth, she had a lot on her plate; work, Adaora, and the constant struggling act of survival in Lagos. But something aroused her interest. The financial situation had been harsh. Inflation was a silent beast, eating away at every little saving she had managed to scrape together. She looked at the market stalls, where prices of tomatoes had tripled in the past few months. She thought about Adaora’s future, the school fees, the healthcare bills, and the government that seemed blind to the struggles of people like her

She finally typed back:
Ngozi:
I will... I might.

Suddenly, there was a commotion near the market’s entrance. A group of young men with loudspeakers was moving through the crowd, their voices rising above the usual market noise.

“Vote for change! This is our time! Don’t let them steal it from us!” one of them shouted. The crowd’s attention shifted, some people stopping to listen, others shaking their heads in disbelief. The air felt charged like something was about to break. Ngozi stood at the bus stop, her thoughts lingering on Ifeoma’s words. The evening sky had deepened into a dusky purple, and the first stars were beginning to flicker, though the city lights below threatened to drown them out. Lagos was always like this—a city that never really went dark, never truly rested. The pulse of the city was relentless as if the very ground beneath her feet was alive with the struggles and dreams of millions of people trying to survive, to thrive, in a place that often seemed indifferent to their existence.

She shifted her bag from one shoulder to the other, feeling the weight of it—a small but constant reminder of her burdens. The market’s sounds still echoed in her ears: the voices of the traders, the blare of car horns, the shouts of the boys with the loudspeaker. And under all that noise, a low hum of tension seemed to vibrate through the air.

"Is this what hope feels like?" she wondered, catching her reflection in a nearby shop window. Her face looked tired, her eyes heavy with the exhaustion of someone who had fought too many battles and carried too many worries. But there was something else there too—a flicker of something she hadn’t seen in herself for a long time. She wasn’t sure if it was hope or just the anticipation of change, but it was there, however small.

A bus pulled up with a screech, its engine rattling as if it might give up at any moment. Ngozi hesitated for a second, then stepped forward. As she boarded, the driver gave her a quick, uninterested glance, and she handed him a crumpled naira note before moving to find a seat. The bus was half full, with passengers slumped in their seats, weary from the day’s work. A woman with a baby tied to her back was dozing by the window, her head resting against the glass. A group of young men huddled at the back, speaking in low tones, their faces lit by the blue glow of their phone screens.

Ngozi sat down near the middle of the bus, her eyes falling on a tattered poster pasted on the back of the seat in front of her. It was a campaign poster for the current ruling party, the face of an ageing politician grinning out at her with a slogan that read, “A New Dawn for Nigeria.” She scoffed under her breath, shaking her head. The irony of it was almost too much to bear. A new dawn, indeed.

As the bus rumbled forward, Ngozi’s mind wandered back to Adaora. Her daughter was only eight years old, too young to fully understand the weight of what was happening around them, but old enough to feel the tension in the air. Adaora had started asking questions lately—about the power cuts, about the rising prices of food, about the kids at school who didn’t show up anymore because their parents couldn’t afford the fees. Ngozi tried to shield her daughter from the harshest realities, but it was becoming harder with each passing day.

She would tell her a story tonight, Ngozi decided. Something to keep her mind off the uncertainty, off the darkness that seemed to creep closer every day. Adaora loved stories, and Ngozi had always been good at telling them. Maybe a story about a brave girl who fought for her family, for her people. A girl who whispered to the winds and made her voice heard.

The bus jolted to a stop again, and Ngozi realized they were nearing her street. She gathered her things and stood, making her way to the door. As she stepped off the bus, the evening air hit her, cooler now that the sun had fully set. The streetlights cast long, flickering shadows, and the hum of distant generators filled the air: a familiar soundtrack in a city where power outages were as routine as the sunrise.

Ngozi walked briskly down the street, her eyes scanning the darkened windows of the buildings around her. She passed a group of teenagers sitting on the curb, their voices rising in laughter. They seemed untouched by the worry that clung to her like a second skin. She envied them for a moment: their youth, their freedom from the burdens that adulthood entails.

Her little apartment building was at the end of the street. Its colour was unwelcoming as it seemed abandoned for a century without renovation. She was soon seen climbing the narrow staircase as her footsteps echoed in the quiet. When she reached her door, she paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before unlocking it and stepping inside.

Adaora was sitting on the floor in the small living room yet to change her school uniform. She was busy playing around with her toys. She looked up as Ngozi entered, her face lighting up with a smile.

“Mum! Mum!! You’re back!” she exclaimed as she ran to wrap her arms around her mother’s waist.

Ngozi smiled down at her, the weight of the day momentarily lifting. “Yes, my darling. I’m back.”

“Are we having rice tonight?” Adaora asked, her eyes wide with anticipation.

Ngozi grinned softly, brushing a hand through her daughter’s hair. “Yes, we are. But first, how was school?”

Adaora couldn't hesitate as she dived into a story about her day. Her words falling over each other with delight as she narrated her story. Ngozi listened, her heart swelling with love and compassion. As Adaora spoke further, Ngozi began to prepare dinner. She moved back and forth, but her thoughts still racing from the day's events.

As the rice simmered on the stove, Ngozi’s phone buzzed again. It was another message from Ifeoma.

Ifeoma:
Tomorrow is important; you can't afford not to be there; in fact, we need to be there. The clamours are growing.

Ngozi stared at the message for a long moment, thinking of the next point of action. She glanced at Adaora, who was now humming to herself as she arranged her toys on the floor.

Tomorrow was indeed important. The protests were becoming more proactive, and the elections loomed large on the horizon. Ngozi wasn't sure what impact her presence would make, but Ifeoma was correct: they couldn't just sit silently anymore.

She typed out a quick reply.

Ngozi:
I’ll be there, I promise

As she put the phone down and turned back to the stove, the faint sound of the city’s hum drifted through the open window. It was as if the entire city was holding its breath, waiting for something to change.

Ngozi stirred the pot of rice as her mind raced. Tomorrow would come, and with it, a choice. But tonight, she would hold her daughter close, tell her a story of hope, and wait for the dawn. And maybe, just maybe: the whispers of a nation would finally be heard.

Ngozi watched them, her heart pounding slightly faster. The young men were wearing shirts with the face of one of the newer candidates plastered across their chests. His slogan was bold, painted in bright letters: "For the People, By the People!" She had heard about him—Yusuf Adedayo. A fresh face, a man from the grassroots, they said. A man who understood the pain of the common Nigerian. But Ngozi wasn’t sure if that made a difference anymore.

As she turned to leave the market, a voice called out to her. “Ngozi! My sister!” She turned and saw Ifeoma, her best friend, weaving through the crowd towards her.

“Ngozi, what are you doing here at this time? It’s not safe to be out late anymore,” Ifeoma said, her eyes darting around the busy market.

Ngozi sighed. “I know, but I had to pick up something for Adaora’s dinner. You know how it is. Have you heard about the protests?”

Ifeoma nodded, her expression serious. “I have. People are tired, Ngozi. They’re tired of the lies. And this election… it feels different. There’s anger in the air, but also hope.”

“Hope,” Ngozi repeated softly. “I don’t know, Ifeoma. What if it’s just more of the same? More broken promises?”

Ifeoma placed a hand on her shoulder. “Maybe. But we can’t afford to do anything. Not anymore. We need to stand up for something. For Adaora. For all our children.”

Ngozi looked into her friend’s eyes and saw the determination there, the fire that hadn’t yet been extinguished by years of disappointment. Maybe Ifeoma was right. Maybe doing nothing wasn’t an option anymore, maybe it was time for them to conquer their fear.

As they walked back towards the bus stop, the streets around them buzzed with life: traders haggling, children laughing, cars honking, but above all, there was something else. A quiet hum, a whisper of something about to happen. Something that could change everything.

At the corner of the street, a group of young boys sat on the curb, their eyes glued to a small transistor radio. The news was playing, and one phrase drifted through the noise.

“The elections are crucial and critical for Nigeria’s future…”

Ngozi glanced at the boys, then at Ifeoma. For the first time in months, she felt a bit of relief in her chest. It was a combination of fear, uncertainty, and a sliver of hope.

“What if we’re wrong, Ifeoma? What if nothing changes?” said Ngozi as she expressed her mind further.

Ifeoma smiled softly. “Then at least we tried, my sister. At least we whispered and made our intention known.”

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