I walked into a place. I am familiar with where I have often spent my Thursday evenings, teaching and teaching. I had not seen Sam in 3 weeks, Thursday after Thursday. He is friendly and smart and I have truly missed him. So, how now? I said to him, how have you been? Hmmm, Aunty, he responded , I was kidnapped. My voice was shrill and loud. I first of all stuttered, then I screamed. What? You? I managed to say.
My shock knew no bounds. I have low-key heard of people being kidnapped, and a cousin was kidnapped a long time ago before kidnapping was mainstreamed. But this is the first time ever that I have met someone in this new Nigerian regime of terror who has, in fact, faced the kidnappers. I sat numb while looking at him closely. He had lost weight and looked disoriented. He jumped at everything that moved. A door shutting, a backslap, a sudden motion unnerved him.
Sam had become an emotional wreck. ” Oh, they beat us so badly, ” he said, “my ankle still hurts.” I looked at him again. His eyes are sunken, his mien pensive. Something broke in Sam after his kidnapping. The story of all those who found themselves in terrorist dens and were somehow released. It was ten days, Sam continued, ten harrowing days, Aunty.
While FCT Minister Nyesom Wile is battling to address the issue, it has been a nightmare in and around Abuja. Crowdfunding, fear, and a raise in ransom money have become the order of the day.
It seemed like he was telling the story of someone else, a distant look in his eyes. ” We were out in the open, in the forest. When it rained, it was on us. When the sun peeped, it dried out wet bodies. Then it would rain again and soak our bodies all over. Sam looked away and said, “I don’t wish it on my worst enemy.” You know Aunty, he sighed, one man fainted, and the kidnappers said he could not die. They told us his family was about to pay the ransom, so we were ordered to source for dry wood and make a bonfire to keep him alive.
Sam was kidnapped along with a bus load of passengers numbering 12 as they made their way back to Abuja from the South South. Some spots in the Benue/ Kogi axis around that area are particularly notorious, and that was where they were kidnapped. At the time this happened, and I spoke to him, only nine of them had been released via ransom payments.
The stories are scary and bizarre. Nabeeha was kidnapped with her mum and siblings in Abuja, and she was singled out and eventually killed. Folorunsho Ariyo, teenage daughter of Chief legal officer of NUC, kidnapped with siblings, has also been killed in Abuja. While FCT Minister Nyesom Wile is battling to address the issue, it has been a nightmare in and around Abuja. Crowdfunding, fear, and a raise in ransom money have become the order of the day.
The commodification of hapless citizens who have committed no crime and are simply trying to eke out a living, through their abduction by non-state actors demanding exorbitant ransoms from families, has become a disturbing new business model in Nigeria, according to a report by members of the diplomatic community. The kidnappings, it appears, are highly organised.
Where do these souls who have lost their way originate? How are they able to perpetuate these heinous crimes? Who are their informants, providing drugs, food, intelligence, and orchestrating their logistics? These very individuals might be among us, our brothers and sisters in churches and mosques, even our neighbours. In some cases, they’re even relatives, betraying their blood for a share of the ransom. Children trading their parents for a fleeting reward, parents selling their own children for mere monetary gain. Has it truly come to this? Can no one be trusted in these dire times?
The kidnappers and bandits have infiltrated Nigerian society badly, it drives us all to despair. In Abuja, the kidnappers’ daring do is unbelievable. They simply walk into estates like a hurricane and cart whole families away without resistance. In other parts of the country, especially in the far north, they arrive in their hundreds on motorbikes and sack whole villages, taking away dozens of villagers and their families.
They leave villages in disarray, walking away with their human cargo. As we lament the transatlantic slave trade, it’s time to look inward. The sin is no less heinous when it occurs in our own backyard. We are selling each other. Unbelievable!
This is a season of implosion. What are we to do?
Focusing on the South East is a separate story. Now, to Ibadan, where explosives were kept in a residential area. All it took was a spark, and the explosives ignited. Boom! What kind of people leave Bodija in ruins? It looks nothing like a disaster zone in Nigeria; it’s like a war-torn wasteland. Houses crumbled like biscuits, mangled iron contorts, and the stench of death hangs heavy. How did we get here? A simple community in Ibadan is devastated. It’s truly heartbreaking.
There was a massive storm in Ibadan. So sad.
Abuja is bristling, Ibadan is burning, and neo- slavery is alive and well.
God save us all, Amen.
