Two images, one story. One grief. One blood. The first, an unnamed girl is crying, spread over a fresh, bloody corpse. Her brother. In this second image, the corpse is out of sight. Just the girl, all grief and memory of a corpse now absent. Girl, drenched in sibling blood, a human debris of brutal power.
There is a statement by the government of Imo State, thanking traders for "cooperating" in the demolition of the market, in its relocation. An obscene work of prose. It boasts, among other things, that new market location is full of promise in prosperity and state economy.
Not a word for or about this girl.
I'm going to frame this photograph as my only memory of Rochas Okorocha. Except it is illegal to use her image like that. This girl here, true and stained. Bereaved, ripped by sorrow. A single image telling a girl's grief, telling of a brother gone catching the bullet that would have killed another; of a family shattered, of citizens expendable at the click of a trigger.
In this image we meet finally as Nigerians, collective victims of power, violated in person or by proxy. This girl here will never forget.
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