This is my story, a story of the most painful experience of my life so far. Nothing in this story is fiction.
BEFORE AUGUST
I had been worried about going for the one-year National Youth Service Corps program. This was because my result, alongside those of my coursemates, had a tough time being approved by the university's senate. I prayed, and my parents prayed as well. They were tired of the delay as much as I was. While waiting for the results' approval, I learnt a skill: sewing. I did my best to learn as much as I could, but as we all know, learning never ends. It is pertinent to keep learning and unlearning to get closer to perfection.
Hope became brighter when the approval was sure to happen at the July Senate Meeting, which was rescheduled to the first Wednesday of August. The approval came, and we leaped for joy. Ah! Finally, we could now go for service and continue with our lives, as it seemed the school saga had paused our lives.
AUGUST
As happy as my colleagues and I could be, we excitedly found our way to school despite the high cost of transportation from our various homes to get our statements of results. Finally, we held the A4 paper that proved that all our sweat and pain had paid off. Although I didn't get the class of degree I would have loved to, I was grateful that I was alive to complete my undergraduate university education.
Patiently, I waited a short while for the NYSC registration to begin, and I was happy to see my name listed. Registration commenced at a later date, and I did register; however, I registered after a day or two because I was not totally feeling excited about the National service experience anymore.
Preparations for the three-week orientation camp were in top gear as I went in search of suitable shirts, shorts, and other necessities needed for the camp.
In the early hours of August 14th, I nervously checked my phone, filled with mixed emotions. The NYSC call-up letter was finally out, and I was anxious to discover which state I would be deployed to, knowing that this would be a life-changing experience.
"Sokoto? Ah! Isn’t this the same state my brother was posted to? Is this now a family affair?" I quickly checked that of my friend, and he was posted to Kaduna. I called him to rub the disappointment in his face, because I promised him that if I got posted to the North, he was coming along with me. I informed my parents about my posting, and they hoped everything would be alright.
Later that day, I searched for available flights from Abuja to Sokoto, as that was the only route that scared me the most. I know I had been prayed for, but my heart was not at peace. All flight possibilities were not in sight even as of the next day or the day after. By evening, I packed my bags and headed off to Uyo to use Akwa Ibom State Transport Company (AKTC) bus for my journey early Wednesday morning, as they advertised that all NYSC camp routes were available.
AUGUST 16th
The morning light crept in, illuminating the doubts and anxieties that lingered within me, as I grappled with the uncertainty of the journey that lay before me. I quickly prepared and hurried off to the AKTC Park, as it is fondly called. I got there a few minutes before 6:10 am. I didn't get to buy my bus ticket the previous day, so I had to purchase one that morning. The staff sluggishly started sales of tickets almost an hour and 20 minutes later, if I could remember clearly. I was frustrated and wanted to use another transport service, which was way cheaper than AKTC by less than 30%, but as fate would have it, the plan didn’t work out, so I bought the ill-fated bus ticket to Sokoto.
We waited for hours to begin our journey. This was due to the fact that AKTC delayed the journey from commencing. Sokoto is at the far North East end of the country, and it's a two-day journey. The unbothered behaviour of the staff was a concern to me. The journey slated for the latest 8 am began at 12:15 pm. It was my sister's birthday, too. The journey started off smoothly. Akwa Ibom has good roads, so we enjoyed a smooth ride till we left Akwa Ibom. I was very hungry as I had not eaten a thing since morning. Finally, I got to eat, but only cashew nuts, bush meat, and groundnuts.
While in motion, we shared jokes, laughed, and made ourselves happy. The journey was fun. We all were excited that we would finally get to serve our country for a year, though a good number of us had plans to apply for relocation back to a more favourable state.
We passed through good and bad roads. We also passed through checkpoints mounted by the Nigerian Police Force, the Army, and even the Nigeria Drug Law Enforcement Agency (NDLEA).
We were still in transit even late into the evening. We made a stopover at Benue State to buy garri. We were not too surprised at how cheap it was because Benue’s slogan is ‘The food basket of the nation'. Benue has so many roadblocks. To be honest, I was getting anxious. It was already late at night, and we were in the North Central region, where news of Fulani herdsmen and bandits had been causing concern, even in once peaceful areas like Benue. But one thing that brought me some comfort was the presence of numerous checkpoints along the way. Before I lost count of them and got engrossed in my phone, I had counted up to 15 of them. I felt safe because it ranged from the Nigerian Police Force, the Nigerian Army, and the local vigilante. We made another stop at a village in Nasarawa when we ran low on fuel. It was a lonely road. This was at midnight. The drivers of the two AKTC buses went in search of fuel. After a long search, they bought a little at an expensive price. Thankfully, the quantity they bought could last them till we got to the next fuel station. Not too long after, we were at the station that runs a 24-hour service. The drivers filled the tank, and off we continued on our journey.
AUGUST 17th
At 3 am, the cold breeze at AKTC Park, Maraba, welcomed us to the outskirts of Abuja. We were tired and hungry as we had not eaten anything except snacks. We alighted the bus, stretched our legs and did some form of exercise to relieve our bodies of the stress.
Some had their bath while some looked for a place to sleep immediately. As for me, I had my bath and made a few calls. Sleep was far from my eyes, so I just rested a bit and continued fiddling with my phone till sunrise. At 6 am, we were all up. We brushed our teeth and helped ourselves to kilishi sold by a trader at the park. Spicy kilishi with no water because the traders around the park premises preferred to sell agbo, a local herbal mixture, instead of water. We waited till around 8 am before we started our journey again from the outskirts of Abuja.
While in transit, our eyes desperately searched for where we could buy food that morning to fill our empty stomachs, but to no avail, as the only food sellers on the ground were the ones selling tea and bread, and we were not cut out for such a punishment of an unsatisfying meal. With disappointment, we continued the journey steadily. We made only a few stops to buy sugarcane, corn, water, and soft drinks, which we devoured because it was our only alternative to tame the stomach worms.
Hurray! We got to a food spot in Kaduna a few hours before midday. We trooped in our numbers to eat at the restaurant. While some ate Amala and Ewedu, some ate Egusi and fufu, while I ate nothing because when it had gotten to my turn to be served, rice and stew had finished, as it was the only thing I would have been comfortable enough to eat. When everyone was done eating, we all got back in the bus and continued our journey.
The journey was smooth and okay till we got to Kano, and that's where our troubles started. It would not have been a nice idea to drive all the way to Jigawa to drop off the ones going to the Jigawa State NYSC camp before we take a turn back to Sokoto; no matter how fast we would have been, success in that plan was not feasible. The driver took the initiative of ensuring the Jigawa-bound Corps Members were boarded in a taxi going to Jigawa from the petrol station we were at in Kano. Our problem began immediately after we left the station. It was challenging to get a suitable route to Sokoto as every local we reached out to for help in directions had contrary opinions. Notwithstanding, we cruised in confusion into Katsina.
EVENING OF AUGUST 17th: BRACE FOR IMPACT
It was getting really late, and we hoped the road would be as safe as the Benue and Nasarawa roads; so we thought, not knowing doom lay ahead of us. We stopped by at a petrol station to buy fuel in a village in Katsina. All of us, being tired, alighted the bus to stretch our legs and ease ourselves. The dark clouds gathered over our heads, but we were not sensitive enough to notice as we boarded the bus to continue our ill-fated journey. The roads were terrible and the potholes were annoyingly too numerous. The bumpy road made me uneasy, and the journey felt like we were on a trip in a roller coaster, thus slowing down our speed in a region that was presumably unsafe. Truth be told, it had been over 10 years since I saw such terrible roads, as I live in a state with a good road network. From time to time throughout the journey, I kept in touch with my parents and siblings, updating them on my current locations.
THE SAD MOMENT
We continued on the bad road, past a village and into utter darkness. To our surprise, we were the only vehicle on the road. "Ah! Abasi mbok!” I exclaimed. “Is this road even safe at all?" I wondered. Soon enough, we noticed a small red vehicle steadily behind us. The vehicle wasn't bothered about overtaking us despite being given an option to do so. I was in fear because I wasn't feeling too good about the red vehicle. When I continually looked at the side mirror, I noticed that it did not for a second hesitate to stop trailing us. The red vehicle was suspicious, and my heart was at peace with that. The driver called the second Sokoto-bound bus to warn them not to follow our path, that the journey did not seem right. Soon after the call, I saw a big log across the road on more than half of the road.
And then, the scary part. "Is this one still a road block? Why is it looking different from all the road blocks we have seen so far?" I had not finished my thought when I saw a man dressed in military camouflage step out from the bush on the left side with another set of men, which I couldn't remember the exact number, troop out from the bush on the right shouting, "Kai kai kai!" loudly. The loud shouts made my blood freeze for a second. Ah! God ooh, what is this ooh? I fearfully thought. I quickly rolled up the window beside me as I sat in the bus; someone tried to forcefully open my door. I instinctively hit his hand, slammed the door shut, and locked it. But my relief was short-lived.
The next moment, I was blinded by flashes of light, reminiscent of Saul's conversion on the road to Damascus. The ominous threats of being shot through the door left me no choice but to surrender. I opened the door and stepped out, only to be met with a scene straight out of a movie. Multiple guns - at least five, were pointed squarely at my face, with one assailant threatening to strike me with the butt of his gun. Another shone a flashlight directly at me, intensifying the sense of dread. In a move that still baffles me to this day, I darted back to the vehicle. What was I thinking? Was the vehicle bulletproof?
A loud bang echoed through the air as I sprinted back to the front seat. Initially, I thought one of the attackers had struck the bus with a stick, but reality quickly set in; it was a gunshot. Even then, I assumed they had fired at the vehicle, not me.
It wasn't until I stumbled back to the rear seat that the truth hit me. 'Ah! I've been shot,' I whispered to the person I collided with, feeling a warm fluid flowing out of my body. In a daze, I traced the fluid's source and inadvertently inserted my finger into the bullet hole in my upper left thigh.
Despite my injury, I summoned the strength to struggle with the attackers, momentarily blocking their access to the vehicle's door. I was forced to sit on the road with the others. As we (eleven of us) sat breathing heavily like athletes who had run a mile, none of them spoke English, and all we heard were loud instructions in Hausa. We were scared to death. Blood continued kissing my bare skin as it enjoyed the free flow out of my body. Soon enough, our hands were tied miserably, and we were made to walk in a straight line into the bush. We walked in a rush into a farm. Prayers to God never ceased from my mouth the whole time. We kept on moving in line with our wrists wickedly tied at our backs.
As I trudged through the dense underbrush, my legs felt like lead, refusing to carry me further. The excruciating pain from the gunshot wound throbbed in sync with my racing heart. I desperately needed to rest, but our captors wouldn't permit it. They roughly searched my pockets, snatching my phone, cash, and wallets. "Muje muje!" they barked, as if I wasn't already pushing my battered body to its limits.
In a moment of desperation, I collapsed onto the dusty earth, not planning to rise until at least three of our captors came to my aid. To my surprise, the plan worked. Emboldened, I repeated the tactic twice more, buying precious moments of rest. Little did our captors know that three of our fellow captives had seized the opportunity to slip away unnoticed, escaping into the darkness.
We were led like slaves deeper into the corn farm. Soon enough, there came the police blasting loud sirens from a distance. We thought our saviour had arrived. I beamed with an unnoticeable smile as we were forced to immediately sit on the floor to avoid being noticed by the bright flashlights of the police. The next sounds we heard were two loud bangs. The police fired two shots in the air, and that was it. They turned on the sirens again and left. Our hopes were dashed before our own eyes because the policemen were not far off from where we hid in the bush. If only they had taken the initiative to enter the farmland, maybe, just maybe, they would have saved the day, but unfortunately, that night was meant to be longer than that. We realized quickly that this was no Hollywood blockbuster movie where the wounded soldiers request an extraction team and Voila!, the cavalry comes through. For us, there was no extraction team, no cavalry, nothing. For a moment, it seemed the heavens had shut either their doors or their ears to my silent prayers for mercy and an instant miracle.
I was really weak, still bleeding profusely. All I wanted was a second chance at life. I did not want to lose blood till I take my last breath, at least not in their hands. I would be buried in a shallow grave and be used to plant rice when I become humus. I was not born just to die and become nutrients for rice that would be used for Masa later and sold on the streets of Zamfara or Kaduna.
These assailants spoke no clear English. We had earlier been told, "Ba English, Hausa direct." That day, we understood the Tower of Babel story as we had a firsthand experience of what it feels like to be faced with a communication barrier in terms of dissimilarities in language.
The scary question came directed at me, "Soldier kwo?" This question threw me into utter confusion. "Me? Soldier? Are you guys judging based on the stunt I pulled at the bus? Or my dressing?" I was dressed in black combat trousers and a navy-blue long-sleeved t-shirt, but is that enough reason to feel I am military personnel, or was it my physique? In response to the question, I kept on denying that I am in the military and kept on hammering that I am a student headed to Sokoto. Did my defense help? No! Wait, how would my response be of any use when they had earlier stated they understand only Hausa and no English? Imagine if I had unknowingly nodded a yes. A yes would have meant an express invitation to meet Yahweh. It's frightening how a simple outfit you put on can put you in harm's way.
"Kai kai kai, oya oya muje mana," blasted the air as the next set of instructions signaled us to continue further into the farmland. Soon enough, we stopped again and were asked to sit. One of them made a call while keeping a stern gaze at all of us. In no time, the thunderous roar of motorcycles shattered the silence, echoing like a storm rolling in. I was so scared, but I still kept my cool even though my heartbeat was like the sound of drums from the movie Drumline. Four or five motorbikes had arrived; at this point, I was really weak, and I could barely see clearly. I was merely staggering and finding it hard to keep my feet stable on the ground. The other two guys and the driver mounted the motorcycles with a bandit attached to them. When it got to my turn, the motorcycle didn’t turn on. There, I thought it was an answer to my prayers finally, but it wasn't. A few more tries, and we were set for motion. The assailant attached to me had no mercy at all; he hit me on the back while telling me to mount the motorcycle. How am I supposed to understand this instruction when you speak only Hausa? I wondered.
In no time, we were out of the farm and onto a tarred road. We cruised at a speed faster than that of Ghost Rider. My attached bodyguard had no mercy on me; he kept hitting me with the butt of the gun. The bikes took a turn, and we arrived at a house and were welcomed by an elderly man whose gaze was fixed on me after he was whispered to. He came closer and showed pity by saying, "Yi hakuri." I had to lie on my side to give him a full view of the bullet wound.
After the brief check on the bullet injury, we were led into a room with no windows. The ladies were yet to arrive as the motorcyclists had all gone back to rescue them from the long journey they were taking on foot, as guided by some of the members of the gang. We sat in the room mumbling inaudible words of prayer. At this time, my adrenaline rush had calmed down completely, and the pains I thought were bearable kicked in seriously.
Time seemed to pause as the night became longer. The next sound we heard was the padlock being opened and the door thrown ajar. The girls were here. One of them kept panicking, scared of our fate, but I repeatedly reassured her that all this would be over soon.
The doors were opened again, and this time, an elderly man and the leader of the bandits walked in. He sat on the table, and whatever he said was translated by the elderly man in passable English. We thought it was going to be a short stay in captivity when we were asked our account balances, and we offered to empty our accounts in exchange for our freedom. The total amount everyone was willing to part ways with gave the leader a good laugh. It was more like we didn't understand in clear terms the situation we were caught up in. He stood up and left the room with the interpreter. Once again, we were locked in. It was really stuffy, but there was nothing we could do about it.
We remained in there for what seemed like a few hours. The roaring sounds of motorcycles blasted the air once again, and when they arrived, the door was opened, and we were asked to hurriedly mount the bike. We went through farmlands again. We stopped over at an abandoned school. The leader of the group gave me two tablets of a drug I wasn't certain of to swallow. He made hand gestures signifying I should swallow the drugs for the bullet injury. Since I didn't know what drug it was and he gave me this stern gaze, I put the drug under my tongue and pretended to swallow it. When he looked away, I took it out and hid it in my trouser pocket.
The rains were here; the downpour heavily hit the earth, ushering in the smell of dust and extreme cold because it came with a strong wind. Regardless of this, we continued our journey, cruising through the farmlands that were now muddy. At some point, the motorcycle I was on got stuck in the mud. I was asked to come down so it could be easier to get out of the mud, but it didn't make any difference. Out of anger, I stepped into the mud, lifted the passenger's base of the bike with all the strength left in me, and pushed the bike out of the mud. While pushing, the assailant behind shouted, "Ya Allah. Dan'Allah." I thought I had done something wrong. I mounted the motorcycle again as we went further on the journey. The other captives followed at a distance with the other available motorcycles.
We finally made a stop at an abandoned school. The state of the ruins showed how disadvantaged the village is in terms of Western education. We all sat on the floor in a straight line. We all sat there sodden from the heavy downpour while in transit. We were terribly cold and shivering. The leader of the group came forward, asking our names in passable English, and some gave him their real names while I and the rest had to lie about our names for no reason. A motorcycle arrived with a man dressed in Kaftan; he had a quick chat with the leader, and then I was asked to come lie down in the middle of the room. Apparently, this was the doctor I was promised a while ago before the journey began. He started medications first by giving me an injection close to the wound opening, and that was really excruciating. Next was his hands roughly massaging around the edges of the bullet injury opening; I don't know if his aim was to press the bullet out. Was this really a doctor or someone with just basic knowledge of administering treatments and medications? I didn't even finish my thought when I was injected with another dose at the same spot. It did relieve the pain slightly, but didn't stop the bleeding.
I started seeing everyone faintly; for some reason, I saw my co-victims on their feet. I struggled to keep my eyes open as I watched them leave the room. That was the last thing I remembered as I woke up the next morning in the same spot. I scanned the sleeping assailants, and I could only recognize one from the previous night. I dragged my tired and hungry body to lean on the wall as I watched my captors having a peaceful sleep with their guns positioned not too far from the mat they slept on. Should I try seizing one of the guns and threatening them with it? Numerous thoughts filled my mind as I wished this were just a perfect Nollywood movie scene.
I watched all of them wake up and make fire with chaff from the nearby maize farm to warm themselves up, alongside roasting a few cobs of maize they got. I was offered a roasted cob, but I shook my head, declining the offer. By almost midday, the room was empty; they all left. I sat in there, confused. Should I run? Where do I run? Which exact direction leads to the road? What if I get caught? What happens? Can I even run at all in this state? I kept on asking myself lots of questions—questions that could not be answered.
A few minutes later, a motorcycle arrived with someone I could recognize from the previous night. I was ordered to get on it, which I limped, mounted it, and sat quietly in fear as I was taken to the hut in the nearby village where the other co-victims were taken the night before. When I walked into the shelter, I was honestly happy to see everyone. The leader of the gang instructed me to lie down rather than sit. Soon after, the leader slept off, and I couldn't wait to find out what the state of things was. I whispered in hushed tones, and I was told the leader needed two hundred million Naira as a ransom payment for our release; my ears seemed too heavy to contain the harsh news.
My heart became cold because of the new development concerning our release. I sat in silence, pondering our fate. I asked if there were chances of negotiations and got no affirmative response. I laid back on the mattress in the small room where we all squeezed ourselves into.
OUR FATE
The leader soon woke up from a long sleep, picked up his prayer beads, and mumbled some inaudible words of prayer. An interpreter arrived, the one whom they called Doctor; the old man who inflicted pains on me the previous night all in the name of trying to press out the bullet from my thigh with his bare hands. The interpreter and the leader exchanged pleasantries, and we were set for the business of the day, the negotiations. We had a chance to give our lives a monetary worth, a price for our freedom.
Negotiations began; it was like a bid. The leader started once again at two hundred million Naira for all of us, while we suggested five hundred thousand Naira. We were trying to be considerate of each other's parents' financial capabilities. To our disappointment, our negotiation was poor and stirred up the anger of the leader. The doctor informed us that our poor negotiations would only get us into more trouble and asked us to do better, so we doubled the offer to a million Naira. Our increment did no good as the leader threatened to sell us off to another set of bandits if we continued joking with him, and he took the price down to one hundred million Naira. At this point, we knew this was going to be a very hard negotiation that we needed not to toy with. So, we took our offer to ten million Naira and begged our hearts out for him to accept. After a back and forth of begging, he settled for the ten million, and we thanked him graciously, promising him that our parents wouldn't let us down.
A small tray of spaghetti and beans made with palm oil was brought for all of us to share. We were very hungry, so we devoured the meal. I saw water, and this strong thirst for it fired up; it seemed as though I would die if I didn't drink it. When the leader saw me drink the water, he hurriedly requested that I not be allowed to drink water, that if I did, I would die. It was a hard command to obey. After the unsatisfying meal, we were asked to leave the room while we awaited our transport to the new location. A female and I were the first to be transported, and we arrived at the location first. It was a hill that was not very high. A pack of bottled water was dropped beside the girl, and my quest for water was revived at the sight of it. Like the Biblical parable of the rich man and Lazarus, I was like the rich man as I begged for even a drop of water to touch my tongue. After a series of pleading, she yielded, but that solved nothing but rather doubled the thirst. We sat there wondering what our fate would be and if we were to be separated into different camps, as we had yet to see others arrive. One of the bandits stridently dropped a long chain close to where we sat; he had an evil grin on his face. He spoke some words in Hausa and started laughing loudly with another of his team members. The girl was already horrified and kept on asking if we had been sold to another group, but how would I know since we got to the location together? Nevertheless, I kept on assuring her that all would be well, none of us would die, and help would come soon.
Our remaining friends arrived, and they all sat beside us, each person taking out a bottle of water to quench their thirst. I watched them all gulp it down their throats, something I was warned not to do. The leader arrived with the doctor, who doubled as the interpreter. We all took turns calling our parents. I can't remember who reached out to his or her parents first, but I know I was the third or fourth person. I called my mum; I was calm over the phone and told her I would be fine. "It is just a small wound that has a bullet inside," I said, trying to trivialize the situation so it doesn't get her and my dad more worried than they already were. I was hoping the captivity would last just a few days. When we all were done with the calls, we were taken to our new room. A tiny hut where one of his wives quickly evacuated for us to make our new home. We rested our heads that night and somewhat slept a little peacefully till the next morning.
As we woke up the next morning, we held hands and said our prayers, uncertain of what the day held for us. Later in the day, one of the leaders' wives brought us food. Cooked white rice with a little salt and nothing else. One of us thought there would be sauce, stew, or some sort of soup, but nothing else was brought except water to fill our empty water bottles, and I was entitled to only milk, I wasn't sure of which animal it came from, but I knew it wasn't processed milk, and it was sweet. Later in the day, the leader came to check up on us. He showed us a newspaper report talking about us, though written in Hausa. We had to deny because we were not sure what admitting to the report would mean for us; the leader smiled and asked me to follow him.
I walked steadily behind him till we got to a place not too far from the shelter. I was told this was another doctor. This other doctor was much younger. He assured me I would be fine as I laid down, giving him a good glimpse of the depth of the wound. I was injected with what I presumed to be a pain reliever. I pretended to still feel pain after the first dose, till I was injected with three more doses. I wasn't sure of what an overdose would do to me, but I took the risk anyway because I didn't want to feel any pain at all. This younger doctor tried to take out the bullet too, but with forceps and not his bare hands like the other doctor, but he wasn't successful. I was feeling a negligible amount of pain, so he was free to do whatever he wanted, as he placed the forceps in me. Frustrated at his failed attempt, he resorted to stitching up the wound opening. I wondered which medical school advised him to stitch up a patient when a foreign object was inside him or her. Isn't that a deliberate attempt at ushering in abscess? The doctor was truthful in telling the leader that my case was beyond his knowledge and that I needed proper secondary health care from a good hospital. He advised me to do everything I could to ensure that my parents provided the ransom so I could leave captivity before the wound got worse than it already was.
I was led back to the hut and placed on a drip. Two bags of normal saline water, and a small bag that contained some drugs, of which he gave me a prescription and advised me again to I stick to it. We all thanked him, and he left. The leader came hours after to check up on me. He assured me I'd be getting a steady supply of milk to drink in place of water, and my drugs were something for no reason I should miss to keep me alive. By night, he was back again to check up on how I was faring and kept on saying, "Ssanu."
Morning came; this was Sunday, day 3 of being off the radar; everything seemed fine. We were being fed regularly, and we had water to drink whenever we needed. I had started drinking water again, though in small quantities, as everyone was still scared of me dying. The leader had demanded that we tell our parents to get an intermediary; someone fluent in Fulfulde or Hausa who he could relate information to when he needed to reach out to the parents to emphasize the need to quickly provide the ransom payment as earlier agreed, and how the payment would be made.
The next couple of days were okay. The leader, whom we nicknamed 'Oga Khaki', played the role of a nice and kind enemy. We didn't feel threatened by his presence anymore, but rather safe. On one of the days, he and his men took us to a nearby stream to have our baths; he was kind enough to give us soap to wash up. I couldn't have a good bath because, by this time, the stitched wounds had opened up, and the walls of the wound became bigger and started producing a smelly fluid. I managed and had a stressful bath. When we were all done, we were led back to the hut. At the entrance of the hut, we would lift our hands above our shoulders while the leader sprayed perfume in our armpits before entry. We all laughed over it. On another occasion, he had a haircut, and he came to show us, smiling broadly. He came with an interpreter, and we asked him to relate to the leader that his haircut was fine, and it made him look so handsome. The leader was happy about the positive compliment and couldn't hide his smile as he said thank you in response. We were able to reach out to our parents that day, and not much progress towards sourcing for ransom was made on their end, but they didn't deter in assuring us that our rescue would happen soon enough. We needed every statement of hope to keep us going. On Wednesday, 23rd August, a day before things went sour, we had our food as usual in addition to the garri and kuli kuli he brought for us. Everything was good. In the evening, he came to us without the interpreter and asked us if we wanted to eat bread and drink soda; it was hard to decipher what he meant, but we did say yes to whatever he gestured to mean bread and sodas. He seemed very happy, and he showed us a wad of Naira notes, and we thought to ourselves, he had received payments on our behalf. The bread and soft drinks happened to be our last meal, as what lay ahead of us was the beginning of a more terrible experience.
The following morning, being Thursday, one of his wives, the one we all didn't like because we judged her not to be as kind as his younger wife, brought us food. It was a morsel; it was really smaller than what the other wife had been feeding us, and our garri had finished. We asked her to take it back and give us a larger portion, and that was the end of anything food. She was at least kind enough to fill a few of our water bottles. It was almost midday when a different group of people, none of whom we could recognize, ordered us out into the bush. We thought maybe the end was here, but unfortunately, that wasn't it, as we were led into another nearby forest and ordered to sit.
We stayed there till late in the evening and were then taken to another hill. We all had confused faces as none of us understood what was going on and who these new people were. Later at night, Oga Khaki was back. He kept a straight face, and he looked very angry. He made a few calls in anger, and we slept hungry on the rock with the cold and sand flies taking turns on who would treat us worse. Very early the following morning, he made another call, he was still angry. Thereafter, we were ordered to get up and keep moving in a line as we were led out of the area. The motorcycles arrived soon and as always, I and a female were the first to be transported. We rode steadily till we made a stop at a farm. He made a sound signal, and his men appeared from their hideouts around. More motorcycles came to transport the remaining captives, and he tagged along not too long after everyone was complete. We all sat there on the floor as we watched him share some wads of money with this new set of people. As instructed, we mounted the motorcycles in twos. We were sunk in an utter state of uncertainty as Oga Khaki bade us goodbye, mounted his motorcycle with another of his men and rode off. His farewell smile was a hard one to decode.
We were transported deeper into the forest. We hoped we’d find a way to escape when we got to the main road, but were we ever going to see that? We rode from the early hours of that morning till past midday. We had no clue where we were headed, even when one of the assailants said we were headed to Kaduna, I found it hard to believe. I kept on praying for a miracle. I saw a rainbow and I held onto it as a sign of an incoming miracle. Even with the hitches along the way, when one of the tires of the motorcycle went flat, we all still arrived at a location to rest a little bit. One of the bandits could speak Yoruba, and the driver spoke a passable one, so that was helpful in securing a meal as the driver told him we were hungry and hadn’t eaten in over a day. In no time, a bucket of rice and beans was arranged for us, and we ate to our satisfaction. This was 25th August, my dad’s birthday. I kept on wondering how my dad felt, as I was the only child who didn’t call to wish him a happy birthday because of the situation I was in. I knew it was going to be a sad birthday for him.
The sun had barely gone down when our journey resumed. We went through rice and maize farms, and the one who rode the motorcycle on which I and the female sat earned a name from me, ‘Smallie James Bond’. This was because of his smallish stature and his riding speed even in muddy terrains. It was a name well earned. We crossed a few wooden bridges until we got to a scary one. We were merely on 5 motorcycles, 5 bandits and 9 victims when we met head-on with another group, which brought great fear to our bones. This group were fully dressed in military uniforms, and when I lost count of their motorcade, it was 20 motorcycles with two people on a motorbike, and they had more sophisticated guns. Therefore, the average number was between 40 to 50 of them. We were so scared when they stopped and looked at us with a stern gaze, but we were relieved when they decided to continue with their journey. We waited for their motorcade to clear out from the bridge before we crossed. Despite all other hitches in the journey through a village, we arrived at a hill which happened to be a stone's throw from our new accommodation.
We sat on the hill till an elderly man arrived. His legs were of unequal length, and he walked in an unbalanced way. He requested that I show him the wound in a very harsh tone. I knew for sure power had changed hands, and we were in big trouble. We still were not certain about what had happened. The girls cleaned the room, which was a mud house with no windows. The dirt from the room gave a clue that it had not been inhabited for a very long time. I was handed over a mat, and the others were given empty bags of rice to sleep on. The good thing was that the floor was cemented. We all went to sleep, and guards were placed at the door with guns and a machete. By morning, the door was swung open for us to take a leak in turns. The elderly man came around early that morning with a bag of rice, seasoning cubes, salt, a pot and a serving spoon. A jerry can and a jug were provided as well. In his harsh tone again, he requested to see the wound. He showed no pity, and he gave an evil grin on his way out. The girls made the meal while a few of the guys sourced firewood nearby.
For the next couple of days, we survived by making our own food and fetching water from a not-so-far away source of water. The meals were not particularly tasty as homemade meals, but for captivity’s sake, it was better than meals made by Oga Khaki’s wives. Finally, Oga Khaki came around, Stockholm syndrome at its best. Everyone who hated him a couple of days back jumped up at his presence and hugged him excitedly. He said sorry as he examined the wound and gave me 2 tablets of Diclofenac and Ampiclox. He assured me a doctor would be with me shortly to help take out the bullet. He brought along with him a 4-litre keg of palm oil, salt and a pack of seasoning cubes. We thanked him and he left.
A day after, Smallie James Bond, my speed driver, came into the room to get everyone out to different buildings close to ours and to also inform me that the doctor who would take out the bullet was on his way. He also said that I needed to be blindfolded first. I quickly obliged and, in a few minutes, I felt a new presence in the room. The doctor asked how I was doing and which regions I felt the pain the most in. I was curious to see his face, but that didn’t work. He helped me walk to the door where there was more light. He cleaned up the surface of the wound, then the inside and the next thing I felt was his lips on the surface of the wound and a sucking sound. “Oh wow, what’s going on” I thought. He spat numerous times and rinsed his mouth as I laid there, clueless of what just happened. The sound of the motorcycle driving off was next, and one of my colleagues touched me and helped remove the blindfold. Later that evening, three of the captives were taken out to make calls with their parents, and they all came back quiet. It was suspicious. We wondered what had happened. After several persuasions, they told us that the ransom was on its way. Isn’t this good news? Why hide it?
LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL
On Thursday, 31st August, 2023, Oga Khaki came. He showed me the bullet the doctor had sucked out and now told me I’d be going to the hospital for a proper checkup, that it was just a village close by. At first, he asked all of the guys, including the driver to come out, but the Yoruba man spoke to him and he ordered them back inside and requested that I mount one of the bikes. Just as I predicted at the beginning that I’d be going out in the same number of motorcycles motorcade that took me in on the day of the incident, I was in the middle of 5 bikes and guarded by 8 bandits. When we got to the first hurdle, there was a big river in front of us. They cut large branches of the nearby tree to carry the motorcycles across the river to the other side. Oga Khaki was a good leader as he not only dish out commands but also joined in the process of getting all the bikes across to the other side. Some left their guns on the other bank of the river during the crossing with the bikes where I sat, but what was I going to do with them? Oga Khaki and the Yoruba-speaking man came back for me and helped me cross to the other side. Then off we left, continuing our journey, unknown to me that this was my release. We made a stopover at a mango tree not too far from the village, where we sat as one of them went to get food. The Yoruba-speaking man and Oga Khaki gave me some of theirs and water too. They waited till I was almost done with my food, then we continued. The road going forward was muddy, and I fell off the bike twice and bled profusely. We got to an open space with lots of tiny rocks, and I was asked to hide behind one of the rocks. I spoke to the negotiator over Oga Khaki’s phone for a few seconds before Oga Khaki left me with two of his men, and they sped off on their bikes. After about an hour, I was asked to come out from my hiding. A man neatly dressed spoke in English and asked for my name. He assured me all was well now and ended the talk with “God bless you”. “Was this really the rescue? The hospital thing at the nearby village was a lie? What’s the fate of others still in there?” I was a book full of thoughts. I stood there as I watched the man who came and Oga Khaki confirming a certain amount of money to be complete. Oga Khaki shook my hands and said, “You, hospital, Calabar go”. He smiled and he said “bye bye” in a funny, jovial way as I mounted a motorcycle of one of the locals, a farmer who they forced to take me to the road along with the man who brought the money.
Finally, I was out. My heart couldn’t contain the joy as I saw things pertaining to civilization again, a concrete bridge and a tarred road were in sight. As the farmer dropped me off, I met with the father of one of the captives. He was disappointed that Oga Khaki didn’t keep to his word as he had earlier promised the negotiator. I met up with a sibling of another captive later in a hotel far away from my release point. I called my parents and siblings and informed them that I was out. By morning, we embarked on a journey to get good medical treatment for the bullet injury.
We arrived in Abuja safely and the NYSC stepped in fully. I was hospitalized at a good military hospital where I was given adequate medical attention and rehabilitated to perfect health. The NYSC made sure my hospital stay was as seamless as possible. I was visited by the NYSC Director General, and he wished me a speedy recovery and assured me that he would do everything in his power to ensure that all my friends were rescued alive and as soon as possible.
I continued my service year after hospitalization and a month’s medical leave to perfectly recuperate till the end of the service year on July 25th, 2024.
It is worth noting that just as the former NYSC Director General, Brigadier General Y.D. Ahmed promised, everyone would be rescued alive.
With the efforts of the Nigerian Army as painstakingly guided by the former NYSC DG:
The first girl was rescued on 20th October, 2023
The next two girls on 7th December, 2023
The fourth girl and the bus driver on 3rd February, 2024
The first guy after me on 8th February, 2024
The fifth girl was on 9th June, 2024
The last person, a guy on 22nd August, 2024
My forever gratitude goes to Brigadier General Y.D. Ahmed and the NYSC for the relentless and selfless efforts that ensured our rescue, hospitalization, and rehabilitation.
This is my story.
I am Emmanuel Esudue.
