Death Threats Shook My Kids – Omotola Jalade‑Ekeinde’s #EndSARS Heartbreak

By: Abudu Olalekan

Omotola Jalade‑Ekeinde, that veteran Nollywood face we’ve all grown up watching, sat down on Channels Television’s Rubbin’ Minds last Sunday. She didn’t come to talk awards or movies. No. She came with a story that still makes her voice crack.

“My kids… got death threats.” She paused. Just like that. Short. Sharp. “During #EndSARS.”

You know those threats? The kind you brush off when they land in your inbox? “I’m used to them,” she admitted. “Happened lots before.” But this? Different. “When the messages started hitting them? That’s when it stopped being some abstract fight. It got… personal. Way too personal.”

Picture it. Your teenager’s phone lighting up with “We know where you live. Watch your back.” Not for you. For them. Your flesh and blood. Suddenly, activism isn’t noble anymore. It’s terrifying.

“It wasn’t just tweets,” Omotola said, leaning forward like she needed you to feel it. “People showed up. At my house. At work. Looking. For me.” She shook her head. “You think you’re brave? Fine. But when strangers knock, asking neighbours if you’re home… when you send your kid to school and wonder ‘What if?’… that changes everything.”

She didn’t sugarcoat it. “I care for my life? Honestly? Not really. But my children? No way.” That’s the line. The moment activism stopped being just her thing. “They getting older? Going places alone? I can’t shield them 24/7 now. Couldn’t before, but after EndSARS? It felt… impossible.” So she stepped back. From streets. From big, loud protests. “Had to. Couldn’t risk it.”

Let’s rewind. Quick. #EndSARS. October 2020. A roar against police brutality. SARS—the Special Anti‑Robbery Squad—had become a nightmare. Stories of killings. Extortion. Young lives crushed. One video, from Delta State, went viral. Showed officers shooting a boy. Cold. That spark? It lit fires nationwide.

Lekki Toll Gate, Lagos. That’s where Omotola stood. With thousands. Demanding justice. Hoping this time, change comes. For real.

Then came the night. October 20. Gunfire. Chaos. Security agents—some say—opened fire on unarmed protesters. Shots rang out. People fell. The nation froze. International headlines screamed.

Omotola? She tweeted. Maybe too fast. Too raw. She wrote something like: “If nobody died, stop sensationalising it. The crime itself is horrible enough.”

Boom. Backlash. Instant. “How dare she question deaths?” People called it insensitive. Cold.

She didn’t mean that. Not really. She clarified later. “I never said nobody died. I meant—even if the toll wasn’t high—the act? It was crime enough.” But damage done. She apologised. Sincerely. “Should’ve chosen words better. Wasn’t my finest hour.”

Truth is, Lekki became the symbol. The moment #EndSARS stopped being just a demand and turned into a national wound. Government quickly scrapped SARS. Promised reforms. New unit—SWAT—they called it.

But protesters? Skeptical. Rightly. They wanted justice. Not just a name change. They listed demands: prosecute abusers. Release detainees. Retrain police. Pay victims’ families. Better salaries for officers, even. Real stuff. Not empty promises.

Yet for Omotola, the movement’s heat came with a price most never see.

“It’s easy to shout ‘fight!’ when only you’re in danger,” she said, voice low. “But when your child cries because some stranger threatened them online? When you imagine them in that crossfire? You rethink everything.”

She isn’t done fighting. Not at all. Just shifted gears. “Street protests? Too risky now. For my peace of mind.” She works behind scenes now. Targeted advocacy. Policy talks. Safer, she hopes. “Can’t put my family in that line again.”

People think activists are fearless. Invincible. But Omotola’s story rips that myth open. “Fear isn’t weakness,” she insisted. “It’s love. Pure and simple. I love my kids. So yeah—I stepped back. Wouldn’t call it quitting. Calling it… survival.”

Reportersroom caught her reflection after the interview. The URL? reportersroom.com/endsars-threats. Short. To the point. Like her new approach.

The actress has always been many things—star, mother, activist. But that October? It stripped layers off her bravery. Showed the human underneath. Fragile. Frightened. Fierce in a different way.

She won’t forget those threats. Neither should we. Because when the fight touches your doorstep? When it whispers to your kid’s phone? That’s when you understand. This isn’t politics. It’s life. Or death.

And for Omotola? It became about keeping the ones you love… out of the storm.

Even now, years later, she gets quiet when asked. “I still watch them leave for school. Every day. Praying. Hoping the world’s better. Safer. Than what we saw in 2020.”

That’s the real story. Not headlines. Not tweets. A mother’s fear. And love. Plain. Unpolished. Human.