Unidentified Protester

“Hold on, who is this?” A body, stiff, frozen, with skin which has lost its colour. “She looks familiar, she feels familiar, yet I cannot place the void between us. Is she me? She is me!”

I glide along to the corner of the morgue, trying to gather my thoughts. “I have to remember; I need to remember. The other side is calling out to me, but not yet. How did I end up here?”

I stare at the blood-stained label 'Unidentified Protester'. “Who was I?” Putting my luminous hand under my chin, I unravel pieces of memory. A father gone, a brother loved, a widow’s struggle, an abuse, a scholarship, a graduation. A plant sprung out from a rock with thorns impeding its growth.

We held our placards, chanting at the top of our voices. We cried out for change and accountability: stolen funds, broken systems, and a blatant disregard for the plight of the common man. Our country had failed us, but we still had tomorrow. Except I didn't.

The lights are off, and the air is stifling with teargas. I hear the sound of guns. I run, but a biting pain hits. I fall to the ground, red fluid oozing out of my head. I didn't realise I was going to war, I thought I was going to a protest.

Her face flashes in front of me, her gleaming eyes and captivating smile. I am not an unidentified protester, I am Amaka's daughter. I am Amaka's dead daughter.