The bitter truth (I)

When the news of the mayhem against Fulani herdsmen triggered by one Sunday Igboho in the South West emanated, I was not surprised. Discord and clashes had been brewing for a while between the Fulani settlers and Yoruba indigenes and it was only a matter of time before a carnage of this kind erupted. Sit […]

When the news of the mayhem against Fulani herdsmen triggered by one Sunday Igboho in the South West emanated, I was not surprised. Discord and clashes had been brewing for a while between the Fulani settlers and Yoruba indigenes and it was only a matter of time before a carnage of this kind erupted. Sit tight, let me tell you a long story.

Sometime in December of 2020, my friend called with startling news: Her father had been kidnapped, along with his friend on his way from the farm. He was a retired civil servant, who owned a farm on the outskirts of Abuja and went there twice a week. Though I was devastated and deeply saddened by the information, I was not wholly shocked. News of kidnapping along that route and indeed many parts of Nigeria has become the norm, so much so that Channels TV station no longer reports it as ‘breaking news’. Kidnapping updates now scroll at the bottom of our TV screens, along with the daily sports and weather forecast.

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When news of their release reached me, I immediately made plans to visit and pay my respect to the family, as I could only imagine the level of grief and trauma they had endured. Two things propelled me; the need to comfort my long-time bosom friend, and to answer the question tugging at my curiosity: ‘What actually happened?’

Quite frankly, the victims were targeted. For the sake of anonymity, I will call my friend’s father-Baba. Baba is your average middle-class government retiree. His farm was tended to by mostly Fulani settlers who lived on the farm. In return for money and a place to live, these peasant farmers cleaned the farm by clearing the weed, watering the crops and picking the ripe fruits for distribution. There were many of such farms around, owned by big Nigerian names and therefore as expected, people flocked from rural villages looking for employment. Baba’s simplicity and generosity was such that he often invited his workers into his home especially during the festive seasons of Eid. They would eat and drink and socialise with other family members as though they were themselves, family.

On that Wednesday, as Baba, his friend and a relation were returning from the farm in their pick-up van, they were ambushed. Cars came out and blocked the road in front of them and behind them. Some of the men brandished weapons while some were not armed. There were several cars caught in the ambush and everyone was asked to come out. The armed men accosted Baba and his friend while the rest were let go. Some of the victims, on noticing that their kidnappers were not armed, fled into the bushes and ran for dear life. Baba’s cousin was among those that got away. His first stop was the police station where he reported the incident that happened merely minutes ago. Their response? ‘We will have to communicate with headquarters first’.

Meanwhile at home, when Baba did not return at around 6 pm, the family began to panic. Their phones were switched off. A call to the workers of the farm confirmed that they had indeed left the farm. By 8 o’clock, frantic with worry, Baba’s youngest son (whom I will refer to as Ali) decided to head towards Kwali LG to find out what had happened. On the way to the farm, he saw abandoned cars, among which was his father’s pickup van. Villagers confirmed that they had indeed been kidnapped and just like that, their life was thrown into chaos. Later, the cousin who escaped would call and confirm the news, after the police had followed him to the site of the ambush hours later. Of course, by then, there was nothing and no-one to be found.

The next day, by 6:30am, the kidnappers eagerly called Ali and demanded a sum of N50 million, each, for Baba and his friend and a family meeting was summoned. Phone calls were made to high ranking police officials with them offering excuses like ‘We are monitoring the situation’, ‘The situation is complex’ and ‘We can locate them, but if we decide to open fire then your father could be killed, now you don’t want that, do you?’. The family decided that it will pay the ransom and negotiations began.

At first, the kidnappers were unrealistic in their expectations but soon realised that Ali was not willing to play ball. First, they tried intimidation, by calling Ali at different times, abusing him and threatening to kill his father, but he did not budge. He was insistent, they did not have that kind of money. When intimidation failed, they moved to emotional blackmail by making Baba plead with his son, raining curses and insinuating that he wanted him killed so as to inherit his money; that too failed. The kidnappers would call him names ‘Shege’, ‘Dan iska’ and demand that he sends recharge cards via text messages to them so that the negotiations could continue.

By the sixth day, the kidnappers had become desperate. Realising that the amount they were asking was not forthcoming, they changed tactics by demanding that Baba’s house in Kubwa be sold. The house was a modest three-bedroom flat, which was built by FHA for civil servants. The family declined outrightly, after all, they argued, who would buy the house at such short notice?

On the morning of the seventh day, they asked the almighty question: ‘How much have you gathered so far?’ The family was relieved. They demanded that they bring what they had along with a list of other things. My friend narrated to me how she went to the market to buy the items they demanded: cartons of Maltina and the energy drink ‘Bullet’, rice, beans, Maggi and palm oil. A caveat was added: Ali must be the one to bring the money and items. The family was apprehensive and police warned that it was a trap but by then Baba’s wife and kids were distressed. It was agreed, Ali and a member of the other family (baba’s friend) would go.

In retrospect, when narrating the story, Ali told me that he went there mentally prepared. He just wanted his father released, after that anything could happen to him. His mother and sisters’ anguish was too much for him to bear, he said. By 7 pm, the kidnappers called and gave them instructions on where to go in Kwali, where they were to continue driving along a dirt road and stop at the first sign of trees. Seven men suddenly appeared armed with shiny new AK47s and escorted them deep into the forest. They came to a stop underneath a large rock, where their ‘Ogas’ were waiting for them. Money was exchanged and their parents were brought out. The kidnappers then proceeded to count the money- all thirteen million- in their presence while they drank their malt and gisted. To be fair, Baba and the rest were also offered malt, which they gladly drank, as it was their money after all.

When they were done counting, one of them suddenly screamed: ‘Where is that bastard Ali?’. His heart beating, Ali raised his hand. ‘Dan iska! Kai ne ka bamu wahala ko?’ (You are one who gave us problems, abi?). ‘Toh! We shall hold onto you. This money is too small. Let the old men go’. Baba’s pleading for his son fell on deaf ears as he along with others were escorted to their vehicle outside. They had been released but Ali’s nightmare had just begun.

At this juncture, I asked Ali- who are these people? He looked me dead in the eye and replied: ‘They are just like you- Fulani’.

Goose pimples erupted over my body at the realisation of the bitter truth.

To be continued.