In November, worshipers thronged Christ the King Catholic cathedral, Aba, for the annual Christ the King profession. The venue was packed. Every year, it has been filled, chaotic and hot. But no fatalities have ever been recorded. This time, in the middle of proceedings, the devil struck. The most reliable accounts said gunshots were heard. Eyewitnesses recount a sudden surge. Edgy people, tormented by terror, accustomed to fright and flight, took to their heels. They thought the Unknown Gunmen, who have no fear of God, had come to disrupt the festival. Security officials locked the big gates: the major entrance and exit route.  Hell broke loose in the church. 

The only one exit left was a narrow pedestrian gate. People tumbled over themselves. By the time the turmoil subsided, bodies lay strewn on the hallowed ground. Among them, a mother and her daughter. Among them, three members of another family. The elderly and children didn’t stand a chance. In this country, crowds are loved: politicians, pastors, Imams, musicians, etc. In this country, nobody cares about emergencies and crowd control measures. 

Often, tragedies are suppressed. Ostensibly to stem public outrage, which can make a politician or pastor look bad. But without outrage, what lessons can be learned? If avoidable overcrowding and paucity of exits lead to the untimely death of the innocent, isn’t it immoral to falsify the figures and efface the tragedy? If the doctoring of the body count denies the enormity of a disaster, are the victims and society not doubly victimised? 

In Aba, in the aftermath of the mayhem, there was no public anger. Perhaps the church is loved. The demand for an inquiry was weak. Perhaps governments in the southeast fear antagonising the church. Somehow, in this social media age, when people would rather make videos of accident victims bleeding to death rather than help them, there were only a few pictures of the disaster in circulation. The church quietly blamed the incident on overcrowding as if some Martians had the crowd control responsibilities. The police said they were investigating. Newspapers put the death toll at 4-6. A relative of some victims said about 48 died. The disparity in figures is another story on its own. Evidently, the disaster was minimised. After a terse apology by the church promising to prevent a future occurrence, the matter effectively died. The dead have been buried. 

A month later, in December, people were invited to gather at a school field in Ibadan for a funfair. This time, it was an Islamic venue. Five thousand people were expected. Gifts and scholarships were included in the promises. A popular radio station made sure everyone heard. People came from near and distant villages to camp at the venue on the eve of the show. It was a cold night. In the times we live, every such invitation should expect a mammoth crowd

Some came for the fun. Some went for the goodies. Ooni’s ex-wife was at the centre of it all. Like the catholic church in Aba, her intentions were pure. By 8am on the D-day, the crowd was already pulsating. The organisers saw the crowd and started to palpitate. The crowd saw them and jumped into a frenzy. The earliest attempt at distributing tickets triggered the avalanche. People surged forward in waves, crushing others. There was no plan to control the crowd. The main entrance was the epicentre of the chaos. The small gate was opened, but it perhaps only worsened the stampede.  People stomped on falling people like horse hooves on grass. The desperation of the living drowned the cries of the dying. The tsunami was already at the peak of its madness. 

As it was in Aba, there were no emergency exits. Unlike Aba, the instigating factor was impatience rather than fear. But like in Aba, as the hospitals filled up, some PR machines stepped in to mop the mess. So, only a few pictures exist. Rumours say some unidentified men prevented people from taking photographs. Others said they saw them seizing phones. The idea was to spare the public the goriness. But if photoshopping the disaster reduces the weight of the scandal and leaves sleeping dogs to lie, how can forceful deterrents be established?

In Ibadan, the police have confirmed 35 deaths. Many lie injured in hospitals. Eyewitnesses dispute the figure. The president has ordered an investigation. An investigation should aim at punishing negligence. But the overriding priority is to lay down new rules to forestall future occurrences. If the laws don’t already exist, they must be enacted. The penalty for exposing people to stampedes because of a lack of crowd control, improper emergency planning, and insufficient exit routes must be stiff. A new culture of safety must spell out the maximum number that can gather in a space and the minimum number of exit routes. 

Inquiries in Nigeria are often political gimmicks. They are used to mollify the public. They consume money and reports that will be discarded. That is why the goriness of these disasters should be published for all to see. Let them be etched on our minds. That way, people will be wary of overcrowding. People will learn to note the location of emergency exits. 

If these disasters are painted in bright colours for all to see, consciousness against overcrowding will be raised. This kind of mass education will do more good that inquiries whose recommendations will die in infancy, stampeded to death by governments’ abiding insouciance and indolence.