Preface The Night That Changed Everything Some stories don't knock politely. They barge in, bullet first — loud, chaotic, uninvited. That night in Lagos in 1994 was supposed to be like any other: basketball, laughter, cake at a friend’s house. But within minutes, I found myself staring into the eyes of death — not once, but over and over again — as bullets tore through my body, and silence tore through the system meant to save me. This book is about more than surviving a gunshot. It’s about what happens when survival collides with bureaucracy. When hospitals won’t treat you. When the police arrest you. When the bleeding won’t stop and the system looks the other way. It’s about the pain that doesn’t end when the wound closes. I wrote this not just to remember, but to refuse silence. To remind anyone who's ever been broken, ignored, or betrayed — you're not alone. And your story still matters. This is mine. Chapter One: The Balcony Where the Night Went Silent It began like every other humid summer evening in Lagos, 1994. The streets smelled of dust and diesel. After a sweaty basketball game, my younger brother Tosin, my best friend Kayode, and I were thirsty and craving the chilled Coca-Cola you could always count on at Mama’s Place. Later that night, around 8:30 p.m., Kayode invited us over to his house for his mom’s famous buttery sponge cake. It was routine. Familiar. Safe. His family lived on the third floor of an olive-green block of flats in a peaceful neighborhood — or so we thought. While we waited for the cake, we flipped the TV to catch basketball highlights — Bulls vs. Lakers. That’s when Kayode’s younger sister, Seun, stepped onto the dark balcony, peering down to check if their mom had returned. Seconds later, she ran back in, trembling. “They’re robbing mummy downstairs!” We froze. Seun had played jokes before — but not like this. Not this serious. Something about the way she shook made us inch toward the balcony. The moment I leaned over the metal railing to look down, I saw a flash — white, fast, final. Then the floor rushed up to meet me. I didn’t hear the shot. I didn’t see the shooter. One second I was standing. The next, I was face-down, numb, unable to move. My right leg twisted involuntarily. My hearing blurred. My body felt like it was betraying me. I tried to rise — and then I felt it. A burning, stabbing pain in my left chest — like a thousand gas bubbles trying to claw out of my lungs. My shirt clung to my skin, soaked. I turned my head, and that’s when I saw it: Blood. Everywhere. The realization hit: I had been shot. And I was alone. The balcony was empty. Kayode and Tosin had vanished. The silence was unnatural — like the neighborhood itself was holding its breath. Panic set in. My mind spun through images of bleeding victims. Was this how they died? Was I next? I screamed. “Help! HELP! I’ve been shot!” At first, nothing. Then footsteps. Kayode and Tosin appeared, frantic. They tried to lift me — but every movement shot pain through my chest. My left arm refused to obey. Then Tosin, desperate, ripped open my shirt. That’s when we saw the holes. Pellets. Multiple wounds. Blood spilling like a punctured water bag. And that was only the beginning.