Let’s Not Return to Those Times

The last days of Ramadan are often described as a gentle descent into spiritual clarity, a soft landing after a month of discipline, devotion, and quiet introspection. But for me, this year, it did not feel gentle. It felt like a struggle, like dragging my weary body and thinning resolve across a finish line that […]

The last days of Ramadan are often described as a gentle descent into spiritual clarity, a soft landing after a month of discipline, devotion, and quiet introspection. But for me, this year, it did not feel gentle. It felt like a struggle, like dragging my weary body and thinning resolve across a finish line that once seemed so full of promise.

I began this Ramadan with hope. Real, palpable hope. The kind that fills your chest and makes you believe you will emerge transformed stronger, more patient, more devoted. I had plans for my ibadah, intentions I held close to my heart, whispered prayers for consistency and depth. But as the days stretched on, the heat bore down relentlessly, wrapping itself around us like a second skin. The fasts grew longer, heavier. Each day seemed to take a little more than it gave back.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, my energy began to wane. The optimism that marked the beginning of the month gave way to fatigue. My prayers became harder to sustain with the same intensity. Waking up for tahajjud felt like lifting a mountain. By the time we reached the last ten days, the most sacred, the most anticipated, it felt less like a spiritual sprint and more like crawling, inch by inch, toward the end. I found myself summoning every last ounce of strength just to remain present, just to hold on.

And then, just as I was grappling with my own internal struggle, the news broke.

Bomb blasts in Maiduguri. In an instant, everything shifted.

The exhaustion, the spiritual fatigue, the quiet personal battle I had been fighting; none of it mattered anymore. Because that news did not just inform; it awakened something buried deep within me. Memories. Pain. Fear. The kind that never truly leaves, only waits.

The coordinated attacks at UMTH, the Post Office, and Monday Market were not just incidents; they were reminders; sharp, jarring reminders of a past we have fought so hard to leave behind. A past that many carry within us, etched into our bones, into our nightmares, into the very fabric of who we are. And just like that, I broke down.

Please God, let us not go back to those times.

We remember a time when bomb blasts in Maiduguri were as frequent as rainfall, so common that the shock began to dull, replaced by a terrifying sense of normalcy. We remember when people died like ants, when bodies and limbs were gathered from the streets in silence, in disbelief, in horror that words could never fully capture.

We remember the streets filled with soldiers not as symbols of safety, but as reminders of fear. A time when their presence brought not comfort, but anxiety. When they whipped people in public for minor infractions, when they opened fire on civilian vehicles just to clear traffic, when power was wielded without restraint and without accountability. A time when the mere sight of a uniform sent chills down your spine, because you knew what might come next.

Let us not go back to that time.

We remember when telecommunications were cut off completely, after three long, agonizing months of silence. No calls. No messages. No reassurance. Just uncertainty. Just fear.

I remember driving to work about more than 15 years ago and suddenly being engulfed by grief that I had to park by the road and cry my heart out. I had not spoken to my mother in weeks and my tears were out of sheer frustration, not knowing whether my mother, sisters and grandmother were safe. Not knowing anything at all. I remember the desperate, dangerous journeys my mother undertook, traveling to Damaturu just to find a signal, just to hear the voices of her children and let us know she was alive. That kind of helplessness leaves a mark.

Let us not go back to that time.

We remember when electricity was nothing but a memory; when Maiduguri was plunged into darkness for nine months after insurgents bombed power lines. Nine months of heat of discomfort, of nights that felt longer and heavier than they should. Nine months that tested the limits of human endurance. Businesses failed and people died in hospitals from lack of electricity.

Let us not return to those times.

I remember the fear that settled into our hearts like a permanent resident: the sleepless nights, the nightmares that followed even when we managed to close our eyes and the trauma that manifested in ways we did not fully understand: diarrhoea, hallucinations, palpitations, dry mouths and a constant sense of unease.

I remember people being afraid to leave their homes. Afraid to travel. Afraid of the unknown that lurked beyond every corner. I remember the road from Damaturu to Maiduguri once a simple journey, turned into an exhausting ordeal. Checkpoints upon checkpoints: army, immigration, Civilian JTF and many others, each demanding, each delaying, each adding another layer of tension to an already fragile state of mind.

Those were not just difficult times. They were dehumanizing times. Times that stripped people of their dignity, their peace, their sense of safety. Does anyone remember how we were made to come down from our vehicles and walk a short distance to another checkpoint all in the name of ‘security’? Do you remember when we were asked to show our ID cards and those who could not were asked to pay N200? Was that a security measure as well?

Ya Allah, let us not return to those times.

The recent bombings threaten not just physical security; they threaten something deeper; they threaten the fragile sense of normalcy that Borno has been painstakingly rebuilding over the years. They threaten the progress we have made, the healing we have begun, the cautious hope we have allowed ourselves to feel again.

We cannot afford to go backwards.

To those in positions of authority, to those entrusted with the safety and security of this nation- President Tinubu, and all who bear this responsibility-this is a plea.

Let us not go back to those times.

Do not allow history to repeat itself. Do not let the people of Maiduguri, of Borno, of the North-East, be dragged back into a cycle of fear and uncertainty that we have worked so hard to escape. Strengthen intelligence. Enhance security measures. Protect lives not just in words, but in action. Because behind every headline, behind every statistic, are real people. Families. Memories. Trauma that lingers long after the explosions fade.

As for the rest of us, as we complete this Ramadan, whether we crossed the finish line with strength or crawled our way there like I did, perhaps this is the lesson we carry forward: that even in our weakest moments, we are still capable of feeling deeply, of caring fiercely, of remembering collectively.

And maybe, just maybe, that is where our strength truly lies.

But Ya Allah, in Your infinite mercy, we ask for one thing above all:

Let us not return to those times.

Eid Mubarak!