It was the year 1973, and the noise of girls running towards the Reverend Sisters convent got me out of bed. Entangled in my nightie, I struggled to get out of bed, rubbed my eyes, and joined the population running towards the convent.
I was 11 years old and naive, a student at Queen of Apostles College, Kakuri Kaduna, and a boarder. It was a little past 11 o’clock in the night and one and a half hours after lights out. The entire student population was running towards the convent where the principal, Sister Anne Cahill, an Irish woman, resided with other religious leaders and the vice principal. Although it was a Catholic school at the time (it later became a government school, Queen Amina College), it had a mixed religious population. So there was Asmau on my left as we ran and Mary on my right.
There were others in front of us and a lot more behind us. Fearful and out of breath, I managed to ask Asmau why we were running. “Ghosts!” She said it between air bubbles as she ran. Our school was said to have been built around a burial ground. I ran harder than ever before. I heard that my elder sister, Eucharia, was searching for me in the back, but I had clearly sprinted up front, escaping the ghosts from where we all ran for dear life.
There was fear, adrenaline, goosebumps, panic, and obstacles as we ran headlong into each other, sick to our stomachs. That fear drove some students to run past the convent and straight into the strict arms of our gatemen, who sent them back.
As we gathered, I could see a slight white figure appear in front of the convent. It was the principal, Sister Anne, carrying a lamp brighter than the security lights as she peered at us gathered nervously in front of the convent. It was a sight to behold: nighties, pyjamas, blouses over wrappers, large T-shirts, and long gowns. Girls! Girls! Sister Anne said it in that stern but soothing voice of hers. What on earth are you doing here?. Ghosts! We shouted in unison.
Sister Anne assured us that there were no ghosts in the area, despite their initial scepticism. She was joined by Sister Andrea, the choir coordinator, and another religious person. After prayers, the group was divided into different hostels. Sister Anne called up the head girl, five other prefects, and escorted them back to their hostels.
“Beyond all of these, there would be those who would have a fear of forests, fear of strangers, fear of crowds, and fear of arm-bearing people for the rest of their lives.”
But throughout the night, we were nervous, anxious, and jumpy. I can recall at least four such ghost incidents before I graduated from my secondary school in Kaduna. But no one was ever abducted, and no one could, in fact, prove that they actually saw ghosts, but we ran anyway.
Today, news of abducted children across many northern states breaks my heart, and the statistics in the last year boggle the mind.
On March 7, 2024, we woke up to news that a large number of children of LEA primary school in Kuriga, Chikun local government area of Kaduna State, had been kidnapped. Many figures were flying in the air, but there were certainly more than 100, most of them barely out of their nappies. Just like us in 1973, there was confusion, fear, and panic. But we were in secondary school, older in some instances, perhaps wiser.
I have sat up all night since this incident wondering how the abductors took this number of children through the roads and forests of Kaduna and Zamfara undetected, but that is a story for another day.
I am more concerned about the younglings plucked from school safety to paths unknown. The yelling of their abductors, the fear in their little hearts, the panic, the dizziness occasioned by sheer terror, and the images that would never leave their heads for most parts of their lives. I ran, we ran, and the Kuriga students ran, but we ended up in different places. They froze in fear, and I froze in fear, but these young ones ended up with blisters on their feet and an unforgiving cold in their little chests.
I was one of the happiest Nigerians when they were freed.
As a carer and someone who has psychology, I understand some of the processes they have to go through before being released to their parents. Security debrief, psychotherapist, physical and mental health checks, etcetera.
Beyond all of these, there would be those who would have a fear of forests, fear of strangers, fear of crowds, and fear of arm-bearing people for the rest of their lives. There would be many with trust issues, as well as those who would have a perpetual fear of educational settings.
Most importantly, we must consider the children who will experience separation anxiety due to the death of their teacher in captivity. This same teacher, a father who had his own child among the kidnapped, was entrusted with their safety. He was supposed to be their protector. Now, they face the agonising questions: What happened to him? How did he die?
This is a heartbreaking story with a bittersweet ending. 137 have returned, but tragically, one teacher remains missing. What words can comfort his wife, his other children, and the wider families affected? We are thankful for the effort and scholarship offers of the Kaduna State Governor, Senator Uba Sani. Salute! We celebrate all security agents, service chiefs, the Army, DSS, the police, and all others who put their hearts into the matter and brought
The children are home.
Today, I stretched my hands as far as they could go and wondered how we got here.
But the story of those who faced barking orders while I met soothing voices—the story of children from LEA Kuriga who returned home without their teacher—would remain etched in our souls for a long time to come.
