'We didn't anticipate just how ecstatic people would be about Gbagbo's arrest – nor just how dangerous an armed, ecstatic group can be'
It was on the way home from a site for internally displaced people in western Ivory Coast, and an impromptu game of football with their children, that we heard of Laurent Gbagbo's arrest. The news wasn't too surprising, as the pro-Alassane Ouattara forces had been getting closer to taking his residence for days. But what we did not anticipate was just how ecstatic a large part of the population would be about the arrest, nor just how dangerous an armed, ecstatic group can be.
As our little convoy continued down the road, we could tell that the news of the arrest was spreading fast; everyone we passed on the road was celebrating by jumping or waving or shouting – or all three simultaneously. When we entered the town of Danané, the streets were packed.
Looking through the windshield from the bench seat in the back of the lead vehicle I could see a wall of people completely blocking the road. We approached slowly, hoping they would let us pass. But nobody budged, and we had to stop.
That's when the shooting began. First, it was just one round, a single "pop" that surprised everyone and threatened to cause a panic. Then a second shot was fired, and a third, and the crowd soon accepted the noise as no more than that of a party popper on New Year's Eve.
Kalashnikovs seemed to suddenly appear from everywhere; old men, young men, boys, everyone seemed to be carrying a weapon, jabbing the wood and metal barrels into the air and firing off a few rounds. Realising the potential danger of a situation that was rapidly getting out of hand, our driver, an Ivorian with nerves of steel, threw the vehicle into reverse and quickly backed us off the main road. The others in the convoy who were just arriving on the scene followed suit.
And that's where we sat and waited as a scene of complete chaos and anarchy unfolded in front of us. People shouted and marched in the streets, others ran and dived for cover; motorcycles flew by carrying armed passengers filling the air with even more bullets, which were accompanied upward by a thick column of smoke coming from a burning car one street over.
Meanwhile, a three-year-old girl in the house behind us was lying dead in her bed with a halo of blood surrounding her head. A bullet had fallen from the sky, pierced the thin tin roof of the house and penetrated the girl's skull while she lay asleep for her afternoon nap.
The girl's mother, who I learned later, had recently arrived in Danané with her daughter after escaping the fighting in Abidjan, lifted the limp body and carried it out of the house to where we were parked. She was followed by several women who must have been relatives or neighbours living nearby; the cries and sobs were so loud they could be heard clearly over the shooting and chanting from the street.
The girl's little legs and arms dangled lifelessly from her mother's hands as she was carried past my window. There was a large, strange-looking knot protruding from the top-left side of her forehead that had a hole the size of a large coin just next to it.
Although blood continued to flow from the wound, running down the girl's forehead and dripping to the ground, the rest of her face was untouched. There were what appeared to be cookie crumbs still at the corners of her mouth. Her head bounced unnaturally to the cadence of her mother's unsteady steps.
She was taking her little girl to the main road, into the crackling chaos. I could tell from the tone of her voice and the way she moved that she wasn't looking or asking for help – there was nothing that could be done. When she got to the road, to the wave of passing people, she held the little body out in both hands as if offering it to them.
I couldn't understand the exact words she then screamed, but the message was crystal clear: "Look! Look you silly, stupid boys. Look what you've done to our children with your silly, stupid wars."