It was a terrible experience — one that left me shaken to the core.
I found myself in the middle of a vast market somewhere in Nigeria. I couldn’t tell exactly where. I was shopping for a birthday gift for one of my kids. The air was thick with the noise of trade — voices rising, prices falling, and bodies weaving through the crowd.
“I have exactly what you need!” one trader shouted, even before I said a word.
“Customer, I go give you better price!” another called.
“Oga, just come inside shop and sit down…”
Then, from about forty meters ahead, came a small commotion. Probably a scuffle between street boys, I thought, and kept walking. But in an instant, everything changed. Screams. Panic. Faces twisted in terror. People running in every direction.
I dashed into a nearby shop for cover as the crowd surged toward me.
Then it happened.
A deafening blast tore through the air — a thunderous explosion that shook the ground like an earthquake. A thick cloud of smoke rose above the market, and then — silence.
When the dust settled, bodies lay everywhere. Some were decapitated. Others torn in half. Bowels ripped open. An entire leg — cleanly severed from the hip — lay at the entrance of the shop where I had taken cover. No one could tell where its owner was. The smell of blood hung thick in the air.
As we stumbled out, dazed and trembling, voices began to ask: “What happened? Who did this? Why?”
The answer came from a woman who had narrowly survived. She said she lived only because a porter carrying a bag of rice had stood between her and the blast. Both the man and the rice were shredded by the force – their debris now splattered all over her. She stopped talking, looked at herself slowly, and began weeping like a baby.
“It’s the work of a militant Christian group,” someone shouted. “They’ve declared war on Nigeria, vowing to stop the spread of false religions and convert every ‘unbeliever’ — by force if necessary. They are killing soldiers and policemen. They are abducting school children – turning the boys into suicide bombers and the girls into sex slaves. They call it forced marriage.”
“The bomb exploded beside a bus full of Muslims heading to a prayer meeting,” another voice added. “The bomber was shouting, ‘Repent for the kingdom is near!’ as he approached.”
The woman who had spoken earlier raised her hands helplessly. “But I’m a Christian like them,” she said. “Now, look at me, just… collateral damage.”
“Which kingdom was the bomber talking about? Surely, not the kingdom of God Jesus taught us,” shouted a young man from the crowd who was still bleeding.
I was speechless. My stomach twisted in disbelief. When did we become this?
A few of us walked down the road to see for ourselves. The bus was still burning, its metal frame glowing red. Inside, the driver and passengers sat motionless — roasting in their seats. The smell of flesh and fire hit me like a wall. I threw up and began to shake uncontrollably. My head felt light and my feet like jelly as I collapsed in a heap.
Then I woke up — gasping for air, drenched in sweat. I looked around. I was alone in my bed.
“Thank God,” I muttered, “it was only a dream.”
As I sat there trembling, thoughts flooded my mind:
What could this dream mean?
If such a thing ever happened in real life —
if Christian extremists bombed Muslims in Nigeria — what would be left of this country the morning after?
Would there still be one stone standing on another?
Would our Muslim brothers accept “sorry” as apology?
Would anyone say it wasn’t a targeted killing — simply because some Christians also died?
Does a tragedy become smaller because its victims belong to another faith or ethnicity?
Must truth always depend on how comfortable it feels to us?
Have we lost the ability to feel one another’s pain?
What manner of people play politics with the death and misery of others?
I had no answers.
“Thank God it was only a dream,” I whispered again, over and over.
But I could no longer sleep — afraid of slipping into another nightmare that would steal my peace.
EDITOR’S NOTE:
This story is a work of fiction. The events described did not happen. The dream is an allegory — a mirror held up to Nigeria’s fragile interfaith coexistence, reminding us to imagine the pain of others before it becomes our own.
