There is no good and evil in politics. There is only the greater evil and the lesser evil.”

That’s what Malik’s father used to say, this was before they dragged him from their home one humid night, the man’s screams swallowed by the sirens. He had been a journalist who had asked the wrong questions, written the wrong stories. They never found his body.

Now Malik stood before a crowd in the center of Kaduna, the microphone crackling, his eyes alight with the burden of history. They rob us and pretend it is governance. They silence us and call it order.’ There was an audible hiss of agreement among the people, a bristling rage shaking the streets.

Electricity was a privilege. Hospitals lacked equipment. Children were turned away from schools because their parents could not pay. Malik’s mother had died clutching a hospital bed rail, pleading for oxygen that never came. His father’s ghost haunted him through headlines and hushed cries in his dreams.

So when the government announced another fuel price hike, Malik knew this was the spark. “No more!” he shouted, fists raised.

The protests started small. Students. Market women. Keke riders who could no longer afford fuel. Then, the unions joined, and Kaduna became an inferno of voices. The movement spread—Abuja, Kano, Jos. They called themselves The Woke Nation.

The government responded the way governments do—with force.

One morning, as Malik walked to a meeting, black SUVs screeched to a halt. Men in suits and sunglasses emerged, their faces void of expression. “Get in,” one said.

The air in the car was thick with air conditioning and something colder. The man beside Malik scrolled through his phone before speaking. “The nation is at a tipping point. You can either push it into chaos or bring it back from the edge.”

Malik clenched his fists. “By ‘bringing it back,’ you mean selling out?”

The man chuckled. “By ensuring you don’t end up like your father.”

Malik met his gaze. “You people already killed my future. What more do I have to lose?”

They dropped him off with a message—back down or face consequences. That night, armed men raided a protest camp in Jos. People vanished. The next day, the news claimed “hooligans” had been dispersed.

Malik knew fear. But he also knew history. The government counted on silence. He chose fire.

They marched again, this time toward the National Assembly in Abuja. Barricades met them. Tear gas burned their eyes. Gunshots cracked the air. Malik saw bodies fall. He saw blood stain the streets like spilled oil. But he also saw something else—people standing their ground.

Then came the moment. Cameras captured it. Malik, blood trickling from his forehead, hoisting a banner that read: You Can’t Kill Us All.

It became the image that shook the nation.

International pressure mounted. Foreign news outlets picked up the story. The government, for the first time, stumbled. Officials resigned. Policies were reversed.

They called Malik a hero. He knew better. He was simply a man who refused to kneel.

And for the first time, he felt his father’s ghost smile.