It was a very large plot of land, now a playground for rodents. Silent, overgrown and forgotten, it lay abandoned. At one end stood a sign post, rusty and creaking in the wind;
"PROPOSED SITE OF THE MEMORIAL PARK FOR VICTIMS OF THE 2017 BUILDING COLLAPSE."
Dingo stood before it, holding a bouquet of flowers as he stared at the open space, emptiness where a promise had once been made.
He visited the site every year on this day, dressed in black. Magnolia were her favourite flowers and as he held on to them, he sighed deeply, disappointed that despite everything he had done, nothing at all had changed.
“Papa, was this where the wall was supposed to be?” asked the soft voice beside him.
Dingo looked down at his 9-year-old grandson, Tijani, he was the spitting image of his late daughter. Same curious eyes, same stubborn nose, same quirk of the mouth and same proud tilt of the head.
“Yes, dear,” his voice barely audible. “They were to erect a wall here, a wall with names, her name, all of them. In commemoration."
TJ, as he was fondly called, stepped forward cautiously. “But... it’s just grass and some heaps of sand and granite.”
Dingo nodded slowly. “Yes, a forgotten boondoggle, that’s all it became.”
Six years ago, his sky had cracked.
A luxury high-rise in Lagos had collapsed during construction, ten floors of steel, concrete and wood had folded in like a piece of paper and among the dead was, Dingo's only daughter, Hadiza, a 28-year-old architect supervising her first major project.
Her dream became her undoing.
“I had a terrifying dream the night before, and had called her that morning, begging her to stay indoors, but she didn't listen,” Dingo whispered in a voice filled with regret and pain, more to himself than the child. “The sky was dark and heavy—in the dream, she was running from something, then the darkness swallowed her up. When I woke up, I just knew she was in danger.”
When the news came, it felt strange—unreal.
Bodies pulled from the rubble. Cries that rend the sky. Crowds gathered as volunteers, and some to watch. Dingo searched among them, frantic and relentless, his hands bruised, bleeding, and trembling.
His screams mingled with the wails of the grieving, lost in the storm of sorrow and dust.
"My Hadiza, Hadiza, I'm here, I'm here now."
Three days later, they pulled her out, dusted in grey, still clutching her tablet.
Two weeks after the tragedy, under camera lights and polished smiles, the governor had announced:
In remembrance of the 42 souls lost, Lagos will build a memorial park with a Wall of Names. It will be to honour their great service and to stand as proof that we do not forget. Construction commences immediately.
They clapped.
They posed.
But they lied.
Back in the present, Dingo bent down and placed the bouquet on the red soil. Slowly, he reached into his pocket and drew out a worn photograph of Hadiza—vivacious, beautiful, brilliant. He gazed at it for long moments, as he whispered in a voice thick with longing;
"Hadiza, I miss you so much, I still can't believe I've survived this long, without you here...."
His voice cracked.
TJ squeezed his hand. “Papa… why didn’t they build it?”
Dingo's eyes glistened. “Because the memorial was just a boondoggle, a showpiece to fool the world and look like they cared.”
TJ frowned. “But that's too bad.”
“Yes, it is," we watched them heap lorries of sand and gravel on this site, but it was for the cameras."
Fireflies blinked gently in the fading light, as evening came. Dingo remained seated, mourning his loss, his knees aching, the bouquet silent in the soil.
“I miss her too,” TJ said, his voice trembling. “Even if I don’t remember her much.”
“She loved you so much. She wanted to build you a kite out of skyscrapers.”
The boy leaned on his grandfather’s shoulder. “Do you think she knows we’re here?”
Dingo looked up at the sky. “I think she's here right now.”
Before they left, TJ took out a pen from Dingo's pocket and walked over to the old faded sign. On the rust, on the chipped paint, he wrote at the bottom in bold, crooked letters:
LAGOS FORGOT BUT WE DIDN’T.
TJ AND GRANDPA.
With an intensely aching heart, Dingo turned away, pressing the heel of his hand into his eye. His heart was weak, from remembering the tragedy that had befallen him.
The memorial was never built, but love did not forget, in the heart of a child and in the quiet loyalty of a grandfather.
All images are generated using AI.
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