‘Eeao!’ Michael exclaimed and bolted for the road. I started after him, but Ade grabbed my shirt and pointed up to the leafy darkness of the mango tree. In a single, adrenaline-charged leap I grabbed a branch and hauled myself up. I did not stop going till there was nowhere to go. I fixed myself in the crook between branch and branch, panting, looking for Ade. He was to my right, clinging with both hands to a branch. But before we could congratulate ourselves on our narrow escape, the tear gas reached us. I closed my eyes, I felt trapped. Now I realized how small animals feel in a bush fire. The air below us was filled with scared wails and shrieks; women screaming the names of their children. But the dominant sounds were of batons on flesh, and boots on flesh, and tear gas popping out of projectiles. Suddenly the wind altered direction, blowing the noxious fumes towards the Secretariat building, and I was able to open my eyes. My eyes and mouth ran with fluid, my sweaty skin was pepperish with dissolved tear gas. But I could see through the mango leaves. The people, scared witless, hemmed in on all sides, stupefied by the choking tear gas, ran out in all directions, like quails beaten out of their hiding places, coughing and falling. Agile youths attempted to scale the high Secretariat wall, but they were swatted down by police batons, like mosquitoes, to fall into the open gutter, shaking and writhing with pain and terror. Those that were able to reach the top had their grasping hands cut to laces by the barbed wire on top. Others, mainly women and children, attempted to run across the road, only to be knocked down by speeding vehicles. I closed my eyes. I discovered that I was whimpering like a lost child. I couldn’t help it. Even now, many years later, the distinct sounds of the violence echo in my mind whenever I think about it. I can still hear the thud of blows, the oomph! of air escaping mouths and the shrill, terrified screams of the women.