Seye was and still is my better half. God crafted him for me; he is my best friend and brother, and if I hadn’t persuaded him, he would still be here. At the time of my arrival at St. Peters orphanage home in Ikeja, Seye was 8 years old, and I was half his age. I was very skinny and malnourished, and as such, I became an easy target for bullies in the orphanage. On countless occasions, when the bigger kids seized my food, pushed me down, and gave me a heavy knock or two on my spotless and hairless head, it made me wonder if they ever knew the meaning of kindness. On a particularly cold harmattan morning, one of the bullies whose name was Zuby walked up to my bed, where I lay coiling like an earthworm battling the burning sensation of salt, pulled my wrapper from my body, and poured a bowl of cold water on my body.

Seye sprang out of his own bed, violently shoved Zuby, and yelled, "Leave him alone now; haba, is not it too early for this madness? He is just a child." Before I could even cry or ask what I had done wrong, “Are you stupid? How dare you push me because of this small rat?” Zuby asked those questions with so much irritation that I struggled to understand why he and the others despised me so much. “I’m sorry if I pushed too hard; I just can’t stand this unnecessary treatment anymore. Please just leave him alone, or else I will report you to Sister Maria.” Zuby laughed so hard that I almost thought he was going to choke. "Seye, you are actually more foolish than I realized, but do not worry; I will lessen your foolishness. For now, both of you should get out of my sight.”

Seye picked up my wrapper from the floor and held out his hand for me to hold and get up. I placed my hand in his, and we left the room littered with unlovable and heartless children called orphans. Did the bullying stop? No, it didn’t, but was Seye there for me? Yes, he was. Ever since Seye held on to my hand, he has never let go of it. Even if it meant being bullied as well, he was always there for me. I can’t count how many times Seye and I went to bed with bruises and aching joints; it was terribly exhausting living in that environment. No matter how many times we reported the bullies, the sisters never gave us a lasting solution to our breathing problem. The only good thing that came out of the bullying was the bonding between Seye and me; we became so close that the other children in the orphanage made jokes about us being gay. 

Fast forward to 20 years later, and the both of us are out of the orphanage and on our own two feet, struggling and persevering through the chaos and uncertainty that the hustle and bustle of Lagos threw at us constantly. Life in the orphanage was tough, but life outside was hell. I and Seye lived in an uncompleted building; we worked menial jobs day and night in order to afford food, but even with all our toiling, eating a meal a day was hard to come by. It was really hard because we were trying to save up to get a decent room to lay our heads in. Things got better the day Mama T, the woman we hawked satchet water for, secured jobs for us at a satchet water factory. The pay wasn’t much, but it was definitely enough to put food on our table and save up for a decent room. 

Eventually we were able to pay for a room, somewhere around the outskirts of Ikeja. And coincidentally, that happened to be the same day the EndSars movement began. At first, I wasn’t interested in the movement until I witnessed how Sars officials stopped and harassed a young boy who was driving peacefully. It was unprovoked and inhumane at the same time, and while this harassment was going on, nobody intervened. It was so annoying to watch. I wanted to jump in and pull the young boy away from the officers, but I saw myself being beat up and arrested, so I walked away instead. On my way home, I couldn’t stop thinking about how I could have helped that boy, and before I knew it, my regret had rolled into enthusiasm. And just like that, I became deeply invested in the EndSars movement, so much so that I began to skip my shifts at the water company. 

Seye noticed everything that was going on and tried to convince me to forget about the EndSars movement, but all his talking and pleas fell on deaf ears. While I was busy protesting, Seye covered up for me even though he didn’t want to because he was angry at me for not obeying him. I had tried my best to pull him out to the streets to protest alongside me and other protesters, but he just wouldn’t budge. On October 20, 2020, at exactly 6:00 a.m., I woke up to prepare my signature noodles and eggs for Seye and even threw in a cup of hot nescafe. I used the breakfast to apologize to him and to warm him up to accompany me to the protest ground at Lekki. The frown on his face showed I wasn’t doing a good job at convincing him. I immediately noticed his facial expression. I knelt down and explained to him the essence of the protest. I spent almost 2 hours trying to convince him, and he finally agreed. I promised myself that I wasn’t going to leave without him. 

We were about to leave when Seye started purging; it took him almost an hour to feel better. When I realized he had gotten better, I told him to get ready so we could leave. He said, “I don’t feel good about this; I don’t want us to leave the house today. We can go tomorrow, but not today.” Seye, what’s the meaning of this now? Why do you always have to be like this? I  screamed at him, not minding that he was older than me. And he said with the calmest voice I have ever heard, "Ayoola, please; I don’t want us to go. I have a bad feeling about this. Make we just dey house abeg, we fit play whot, and I fit make egusi soup, I know say na your favorite soup, and... I cut him short, saying, Seye, e don do, no follow me, every time person go dey beg you. We kept going back and forth, and eventually, but reluctantly, Seye agreed to follow me.

We got to Lekki around 4:30p.m. and in no time we were already chanting the words, “EndSars”. I noticed Seye wasn’t happy; he looked worried and afraid at the same time, I rubbed his shoulders gently to assure that we were safe and nothing bad was going to happen. 1 hour, 30 minutes later, we marched down to the Lekki Toll Gate, where we all sat down peacefully, chanting. Seye kept pleading with me to follow him home, but I kept telling him to hold on. Our chanting was followed immediately by the army officers who had barricaded us shouting, "Shoot them," in loud voices. And at command, multiple rounds of bullets were targeted at us. People screamed and started running; human beings were being gunned down like bush animals. In all the chaos, Seye and I separated. After a while, I heard a voice saying, "Ayo, see me here; run to me," and just as I was bolting to where my brother was, he was shot three times at the right side of his head.

I fell on my knees in front of him, just in time for his body to fall on mine. His head had a big opening; I could see his brain, and the blood gushing out from it was incessant. His big eyes froze, with a little teardrop trickling down his right cheek. I couldn’t say anything, I couldn’t shout, and I couldn't cry. My body stiffened with shock, so much so that I couldn’t resist the hands that pulled me away from Seye’s body. People kept asking, “Are you okay? Did the bullet touch you?” I guess it was very normal for them to ask me such questions because my beige khaki shorts absorbed the blood that poured out of Seye’s head. That’s how I lost my soulmate, my best friend, my brother, and my better half. I killed Seye, and now my life is meaningless without him.