Five years have passed since the tragic events at Lagos’ Lekki Toll Gate on October 20, 2020, when Nigerian soldiers opened fire on peaceful demonstrators. What started as a nationwide call for reform-led by young Nigerians demanding an end to oppressive governance and a safer, more just society-was met with brutal violence. The protests were a vital outlet for citizens to voice their frustrations and push for meaningful change, yet the response from authorities was a stark denial of their right to peaceful assembly.
Half a decade later, the legacy of the #EndSARS movement remains twofold: pride in a generation that courageously sparked a historic movement, and sorrow over the harsh reality that, following the Lekki massacre, peaceful protest became a perilous act with life-threatening consequences.
The massacre left families shattered-parents lost children, children lost parents, and friends mourned friends. Many survivors still carry the trauma of fleeing for their lives amid chaos. The incident has inspired numerous books, films, and songs, yet the question remains: how does one commemorate such a painful chapter? What memories endure after dedicating one’s voice and energy to a cause?
We reached out to Temitayo Akinyemi, Victor Daniel, and Pelumi Salako to share their reflections on what the #EndSARS protests mean to them and the lasting impressions from that fateful night.
Where were you when the Lekki Toll Gate shooting happened, and is there a particular image or story from that night that remains vivid in your mind?
Victor Daniel: I was in Abuja, preparing to watch a football match. Before leaving, I saw the iconic photo of protesters sitting calmly at the toll gate-a haunting scene that felt like the calm before a storm. The quiet determination in that image was chilling. I left my phone behind and watched the game, but when I returned and checked my messages, it was as if the world had collapsed. Had I been in Lagos, I would have stood with them. The days that followed were filled with anxiety and disbelief at how far the government would go to suppress peaceful voices.
Temitayo Akinyemi: I was in Port Harcourt, glued to Twitter updates about the protests until I learned that DJ Switch was live on Instagram. I tried to watch her stream, but poor internet forced me back to Twitter. That night, we unwillingly witnessed a live broadcast of young Nigerians pleading for an end to police brutality-only to be met with military force instead.
Pelumi Salako: I was with my family in Ogbomoso, where I had joined protests despite my mother’s warnings. The image of unarmed youths clustered at Lekki, waving the Nigerian flag with hope and determination, still haunts me. To think that such peaceful demonstrators were met with gunfire is deeply disturbing.
What memory or feeling from 2020 remains etched in your mind, something you cannot erase?
Victor Daniel: The overwhelming sense that we were on the brink of genuine change. It felt like a historic moment was unfolding, a chance for authentic transformation. Perhaps I was naive, or maybe I overestimated our leaders’ integrity. Still, that spark of hope has never fully faded.
Temitayo Akinyemi: Whenever I think of #EndSARS, I hear the voices from that night urging protesters to lie down and keep waving the flag, insisting, “They cannot shoot at us.” But they did. That haunting contradiction is impossible to forget.
Pelumi Salako: What stays with me is the government’s denial of the Lekki shooting despite overwhelming evidence. It reveals a disturbing lack of conscience among those in power-a chilling reminder of how detached they are from the people they govern.
In what ways did #EndSARS reshape your perspective on protest and Nigeria’s future?
Victor Daniel: The movement showed me how swiftly and effectively a grassroots uprising can mobilize. The organization and unity were remarkable. Sadly, the government took note too, becoming more strategic and cynical in dividing citizens to prevent such solidarity from reemerging.
Temitayo Akinyemi: Historically, protests in Nigeria have been met with forceful suppression, regardless of their cause. The government’s language-words like “quash” and “clear”-always signaled violent intent. When #EndSARS protesters were labeled as hoodlums, I knew trouble was imminent. Yet, the brutal reality still shattered my spirit, exposing a nation trapped in a cycle of violence.
Pelumi Salako: It became clear that our collective memory is short, and our capacity to hold leaders accountable is weak. For some, protests are merely opportunities for personal gain or political positioning, with little respect for those who sacrificed their lives.
How do you personally choose to honor and remember #EndSARS?
Victor Daniel: I remember #EndSARS through the countless stories of young Nigerians who continue to face state violence. I hold onto the belief that the movement achieved something significant, even if it’s hard to see now. I refuse to accept that our efforts were in vain.
Temitayo Akinyemi: I honor the bravery of those who stood up despite the odds. Resistance is daunting, especially when it feels hopeless, but we stood together. That collective courage, etched in blood and sweat, is what I choose to remember.
Pelumi Salako: I pay tribute to those who suffered and lost their lives fighting for a better Nigeria-a country where future generations can thrive. Their sacrifices demand that this nation works harder to fulfill their dreams.
October 20, 2020, remains a dark night when the nation turned its weapons on its youth. What memories do you carry from #EndSARS?
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