A LETTER TO NIGERIANS

Dear Nigerians,
I am writing this letter to you to tell you my story.
Let me first of all give you a little insight into my background.
My name was Moyo Aliyu Eze. I was nineteen years of age and the only child and son of my parents when disaster struck my family. My father spent millions of Naira building a lovely house in Ikoyi, a highbrow area in Lagos. His primary concern was to provide a very comfortable and secure environment for my mum and me. With the security problem in Nigeria, he figured that the best he could do for his family was to create a haven of some sort in our Ikoyi home. And he did just that.
We had everything any Nigerian family would want and so much more. Anything I needed, my parents provided. Nonetheless I was not “spoilt”. My mum made sure of that.
The fateful day that changed my life and everything in my family was August 1st 2005. It was about 7.30pm in the evening. I drove out to see my friend Arome who lived down the road. We had planned to watch a football match with some other friends at his place. Nigeria was playing against Brazil in a friendly match.
However, as I drove out, the car stopped on the road a few metres from home. I checked to see what was wrong and realized it was the new security system that had just been installed that caused the car to stop. Since I did not know how this particular security device worked I started to walk back home to get help.
I was almost at the drive-in to our gate when two young men (about my age) crossed my path with their “okada” (motorbike). Before I knew what was happening, one of them pulled out a gun and shot me twice. One bullet went into my leg the other went into my abdomen.
I slumped to the ground like a sack of beans and they quickly robbed me of my cell phone, I-pod and money. And they disappeared from the scene just as fast as they had appeared.
Even though this happened right in front of the house nobody heard the gun shots. The generators in the area completely drowned out the sound.
There I was, in a pool of my own blood, so close to home (my haven) with no one to help me. What a horrible irony!
I managed to drag myself to the gate but I could not reach the door bell in my state. The security man was doing some work in the backyard just before I left so I knew he would not be in the gate house. I resorted to banging the gate hoping that someone would hear. Unfortunately for me, nobody heard.
I guess everybody was watching the football match and the noise from our generator did not help my situation.
After banging the gate for about 15 minutes or so there was no help in sight. So I decided to drag myself to the car. My intention was to press the car horn for as long as I had the energy. I had lost so much blood that I was close to passing out.
I mustered up all the energy I could and started dragging myself back to the car. Just before I got to the car a jeep drove pass. It then stopped and reversed to where I was. The “Good (Nigerian) Samaritan” got out of his car, picked me up and put me in the back seat of his jeep. As he drove round looking for a hospital, I was slipping in and out of consciousness. He kept talking to me and encouraging me to hold on.
My “Good (Nigerian) Samaritan” took me to four different hospitals but they all refused to treat me because I had gunshot wounds. They were afraid that if they treated me the police would later come in to harass and arrest them.
Apparently there was an existing law that stipulates that all gun patients must first get a police report to present to the hospital before they can receive any form of treatment. Is that not ridiculous and irrational? Well, that’s the unfortunate situation I found myself in the fateful day.
My “Good (Nigerian) Samaritan” kept encouraging me not to give up. He decided to go back to where he picked me to enable him scout the area for any clue so as to my identity.
Meanwhile, my friend Arome had called my cell phone three times. A strange voice answered my phone the third time he tried. That’s when he suspected that something had gone awfully wrong. He drove to my house only for him to see my car parked on the road close to my house.
As Arome got out of his car he saw trails of blood stains on the ground and on the gate. He ran to the gate to see if I was there but the car was empty. That’s when he called my father to let him know the situation.
My dad came out alone to meet Arome. When he saw the blood he nearly passed out. That’s when my “Good (Nigerian) Samaritan” arrived back on the scene. On seeing my dad and Arome, he explained to them all that had happened from the time he picked me up.
My Dad and Arome ran to the jeep to confirm if it was me. When they saw me they could not believe what they saw. I was a sight to behold! I was a total mess with blood and dirt all over me. They both quickly jumped into the jeep and my Dad directed my “Good (Nigerian) Samaritan” to the family hospital.
Arome was in tears, he just could not believe what had happened to me.
I passed on before we got to the hospital. As they say, I was brought in “dead on arrival” (DOA). It was our family doctor that broke the sad news to my father. My Dad wept uncontrollably. His only child and son was dead and gone.
My Dad kept saying “How could this have happened?”
My father had the money to send me to any of the best hospitals in the world. However that did not matter when I was shot. All I needed at that time was a hospital in Nigeria that would take me in and treat my gunshot wounds. All I needed at that time was for the Nigerian society to function properly. My father’s money could not help me when I needed help most. How cruel does life get?
The decadent system ate me up, just like that! The decadence in the society had come knocking on my door and I had nowhere to hide. I became yet another innocent victim like so many others before me.
I was too young to die. I had dreams of creating a better society by building a great new Nigeria.
My parents were completely heartbroken. Nobody seemed to be able to comfort them. Their only child and son died in spite of their efforts to create a haven for the family. It was a tragedy. They felt so hopelessly helpless and powerless. My death was their worst nightmare!
So that’s my story!
If you, “Dear Reader” do nothing to create a positive social change in Nigeria then you can be sure that the decadence in the society will one day invade your life or the lives of your family members or the lives of your friends.
The decadence in the society is not a respecter of persons. I was too young to die but “DECADENCE” said it did not matter. I was an only child and son but “DECADENCE” said “SO WHAT!” I was from a wealthy family but “DECADENCE” couldn’t care less! My father thought he had done all that matters to ensure my safety, notwithstanding “DECADENCE” came knocking on my door and shot me dead in cold blood!
“Dear Nigerian” if the masses are not secure, nobody else is. A nation is as strong as its weakest link.
Please do something now to change the status quo. Do something now to create a safer Nigeria for all. Do something now to ensure that my death was not in vain.
DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!
DO SOMETHING NOW!

Start by telling my story to other Nigerians. Then do something about it!

Make this a campaign.

Thank you.
Love,
Moyo Aliyu Eze

Written By: Olaboludele Simoyan

“Our destiny changes with our thought; we shall become what we wish to become, do what we wish to do, when our habitual thought corresponds with our desire.”- Orison S. Marden

May god help us Amen.

Summary please somebody.