On 23 June, her mother brought her here because her father and uncles were at home cursing and shouting over the military annulling those same elections. On 12 June 1993, the day of the most democratic election in Nigeria’s history, she’d come here with her father and watched him shed tears of joy. Despite its trash, there was still something sacred about Bar Beach. Her need to feel the cool sand between her toes at this moment outweighed the risk. So far, however, she hadn’t stepped on any pieces of wood, rusty nails, broken glass, or sharp stones. It was deep night, and this was probably a bad idea. Even the best swimmers risked a watery death by its many rip currents.Īdaora had removed her sandals. Bar Beach’s waters were too wild for any serious swimming. The beachside bars and small restaurants were the most popular hangout spots. Bar Beach attracted drug dealers, squatters, various accents and languages, seagulls, garbage, biting flies, tourists, all kinds of religious zealots, hawkers, prostitutes, johns, water-loving children, and their careless parents. The ocean mixed with the land, and the wealthy mixed with the poor.
In many ways, Bar Beach was a perfect sample of Nigerian society. When bad things happened, her feet always brought her here, to Lagos’s Bar Beach.
About a quarter of a mile away was open water where the Atlantic overflowed its banks. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and trained her eyes straight ahead. She’d spent more time walking this beach than probably both of these men combined. She was a born-and-raised Lagosian, and she was wearing nicely fitted jeans and a sensible blouse. They ambled in their general directions, eyeing each other as it became clear that their paths would intersect. The bloodied man wearing army fatigues from the west. Adaora came from the north side of the beach. Exactly three yards from the water at exactly 11:55 p.m., 8 January 2010. It was an eerie moment as Adaora and the two strange men arrived at that spot, right before it happened.
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