wpid-sad_black_woman.jpgBy the time I woke up, it was already late in the morning, and to my surprise I wasn’t tied or thrown into a hole like I had thought, I was just alone in the tent, I touched the side of my head, it didn’t hurt as much, but I still felt the pain, probably from the memory of the blow, I still lay down and stared at the tent ceiling, it was rather hot inside, Continue reading



tearsWe were driven for what seemed like an eternity, the long drive was quiet, quiet not because we were tired, but quiet because we were uncertain of what lay in front of us, the realization that we had been taken sank in very fast, i had heard stories of people being taken captive and never heard from again, many of us had even paid visits to families who had lost loved ones either by way of a stray or intentional bullets, axes or machetes, or being taken away, i would always say the same things over and over again, Continue reading


Ife-Story.jpgIt was a cold night, not unusually cold, but cold all the same, we were getting set for bed, after a long day of writing exams; exams we had studied day and night for, under the most stressful conditions; you see, it’s quite difficult studying for an examination and dodging either bullets or machetes, and not exactly in that order, because we always dodged  whichever came first, but we studied all the same, because deep down in her hearts we had the hope that someday soon, the turmoil would end, and we would be allowed to face our futures, so we decided to prepare for it sooner than later, we were not going to allow anything take away the only thing we had that was capable of giving us the lives we dreamed of, so we persevered and we studied.

Continue reading


wpid-sad_black_woman.jpgAfter the incident we began to talk and play as kids’ do, I even started to hang out with Obiri and the rest of her friends whenever Aunty Edith was out as she often was. Sometimes I will follow her and Kemta her side kick to kuramo near the motor park on the other end of Paradise to go hustle. We go there to sell ‘Igbo’ weed or stolen phones which had been appropriated from handbags and pockets of careless commuters unlucky enough to have let their guard down while in Paradise Island, my duty was to stand watch near the road by the okada commercial cyclists to watch out for Police or ‘Askari’ as Obiri calls them in street parlance.

Sometimes i will follow them to Audu the Mai-Suya in front of Ghana High for barbeque fish with coke to chase it down, this was a luxury and only happened once in a while. I love coke but could not afford to buy it save the few times we made some money and will treat ourselves to one bottle each or share between us. Sometimes on these trips kemta and the other girls will steal off with the commercial motorcyclists, the okada men going towards the far and dark part where the beach huts faced rumbling waves of the ocean. They would be gone for 15 perhaps 20 minutes and then come back, the okada drivers adjusting his trousers and the girls counting money. I did not understand what they were selling but never asked not once although i never saw Obiri go with them.

Paradise island a complete contrast to its name one of the most deprived and violent ghettos in the city. It stood alone set apart from other areas an island standing aloof as though in defiance of constituted authority, that might be open to debate but most of the inhabitants were certainly in defiance of society. We made our own rules lived by our unwritten commandments. “Thou shalt not steal from residents” or a tire round your neck, a box of matches materialize as if from thin air and the culprit is reduced to cinders all in minutes. You are permitted to steal from outside never in Paradise…  

The Island concealed a rich gaggle of hardened criminals, inexhaustible supply of mild mannered and well-spoken fraudsters alike, I was yet to figure out the most terrifying monsters were not battle hardened villains carrying guns waylaying innocent people, they were those much closer to home sporting the beguiling smiles endearing manners.    

This Friday evening as usual Aunty Edith dressed up to go out only this time she laid out a pretty dress on the bed, she asked me if I liked it and i was extremely thrilled when i realized it was for me.I tried it on and it was a little short and revealing but I did not care so much about that. This does not happen every day so I was happy with my new dress, giggling with childish excitement. After a while we heard a knock and aunty opened the door, as soon as I saw his face my heart sank to the pit of my stomach, not even the excitement of my new dress could remedy the unpleasant mien that had sullied my happy mood, of all Auntie’s friends and customers I resent the man standing in the doorway the most. I constantly felt a strange sense of unease how Uncle Sammy stares and ogles me with those bloodshot eyes of his, piercing eyeballs which seem to bore right through me, searing as though stripping me naked. He is obese and very dark in complexion, always sweaty with a lingering body odor that trailed after him, not unlike mama’s He-goat back in the village.

Once, when Aunty was not looking he grabbed my bottom but I quickly pulled away from him, since then I am always mindful of being near him.   He stepped inside Aunty greeting him and both exchanged fleeting looks I did not understand but dismissed as something adults do. He sat down and like Aunty had tutored me, quickly rushed to our small fridge to fetch the bottle of beer reserved for him as i uncorked it he made a half-hearted effort to grab me and I jumped back alarmed, he laughed heartily as he busied himself filling the glass to the brim and gulping down to the dregs lips smacking in contentment. He must be giving her a lot of money because she never entertains any of the others, not even with ordinary water or biscuit, unless they brought out their own cash. Ah!!! Aunty never jokes with money.

 I sat down in a corner soon lost in my dreams my girlish fantasies though still self-conscious in his presence tried to cover the exposed part of my body due to the revealing dress. Aunty left with him later but instructed me to leave the door unlocked. It must have been no less than 30-45 minutes after I had been in bed I heard a creak in the door, before I could react I felt a massive sweaty palm clamp over my mouth. The overpowering odor the weight on top of me, even in the darkness I instinctively knew it was Uncle Sammy.

 In blind panic i tried struggling free the distinctive odor of cigarette assailing my nostrils but with little success. He was on top of me now breathing heavily noxious scent of beer and whiff of nicotine bellowing out with his every breath, ever present stale sweat as he continued slobbering all over me, while I tried twisting my face away from his terrifying assault. I made an effort to push him off and scream but he had planted his lips directly over mine, almost swallowing my lips and tongue in his slobbery and slimy assault. With his shoulder and part of his chest pinning me down to the bed one of his hands was fumbling and squeezing my immature and barely formed breast, rough and mauling touch really painful mentally more so. It felt like an eternity of his terrifying assault before he briefly paused to undo his belt .Then I saw a fleeting chance to free my right hand, as i grabbed an empty bottle sitting on the side of the bed and smashed it on his bald head as hard as I could with what little strength i had left, the bottle did not break but his yelp of pain as his hands instinctively went up to his head holding and massaging the point of contact was satisfying indeed.  

This created a small window of opportunity to quickly slip out from underneath him as i ran outside the room into the darkened corridor darting out as fast as my legs could carry me. He lumbered outside the bedroom after me cursing loudly and trying to grab hold of me but I was already outside, holding my torn nightie tightly with one hand to my chest and racing towards the main road. I looked around for any sign of Aunty but she was nowhere in sight so crossed over to the other side, and after a quick look to make sure he was not following ducked and hid my small frame on the other side of a disused sand dune. I sighted him after some minutes shuffling out, still massaging his head and smoking as he continued muttering audibly even in the distance. He lurched off into the night the dark already cloaking his dark thoughts and designs with the enveloping anonymity darkness affords the vile and evil.   It was in this state shivering with fright that omoefa had accosted me. She led me back to her own room lending me a shirt to wear over my torn dress, and then gave me her bed to sleep in until the next morning when Aunty will return. The next morning before I left Omoefa warned me not to accept opened drink or food from any of Auntie’s friends. I returned back to our apartment with a new resolve to return back to the village with the little money I have saved going out with Obiri and Kemta. I know mama can use the money to start something and we would have enough at least to feed.

To Be Continued……………………..

By Bunmi olaniyan

Read Part 2 HERE



wpid-sad_black_woman.jpgToday I turn sixteen years old.  

As I lay there deliberating my friend Omoefa’s coarse and loud voice rang out as she shouted my name from outside startled me out of short lived reverie. I got up from the bed still in my pant and bra holding my head which had subsided a bit, just by sheer will and effort managed to put on a pair of Jeans and tee shirt. I slipped on a pair of slippers and stepped into the slightly darkened corridor crisscrossed with other rooms adjoined leading out to the compound.  

I beheld one of the older girls who also worked in our compound Cindy and friends dancing near the window but ignored them only extending a brief greeting to Deborah one of the girls as I moved on, I heard from Omoefa’s roommate Cindy was from a good home, had even been sent to school a real secondary school but had run off with an older boyfriend her father’s pension safely tucked in her bag. The boyfriend swindled her and traveled out to Spain, leaving her with just a letter I suppose as memento or reminder I don’t know. Some have feet and shoes to wear on them, some have shoes but no feet, others possess neither shoes nor feet I wish, i wonder….  

I met Omoefa sitting in a corner with the girls smoking ‘Igbo’ weed as they all shuffled to the music emanating from the stereo. I went towards them and as soon as they sighted me, they all shouted as if on cue hailing AREA HOW FAR NAH? Happy Birthday!!!

Tinuke Omoefa’s room mate passed me a cup of “Tombo liquor “as I joined them on the bench Omoefa passed me the smouldering wrap of ‘Igbo’ she was smoking. I held it between my thumb and forefinger the embers cackling, sparks emitting from the tiny embers of the seed as i tapped the excess ash off. I put the cup to my lips and swallowed a mouthful of the local gin, my eyes watered slightly as the ethanol hit me full in the chest, oblivious to my pain charting a burning path down my throat traversing relentlessly down, a fiery passageway to the pit of my stomach. I took a long drag of the ‘Igbo’ weed inhaling holding in the smoke as long as I could thankfully, it was not the highly intoxicating kanaku hybrid.

The smoke circulated slowly coursing through internal orifice, oh so soothing…swirling as in creating an artificial smokes screen, cloud-induced interface alongside sudden No stark reality of the life i existed in.   It was all I could do not to lean back in relief my headache slowly receding as though dancing backwards, evaporating into nothingness…air, just like the smoke emanating from my slightly parted lips and nostrils drifting up into oblivion. I watched it all swirling upwards towards a stack heap of forgone memories where earlier introspection, niggling conscience end up never to harm or hold my thought process in a choke hold leaving me free to indulge in my vices, my excesses with no recourse to conscientious thoughts. 

The first time omoefa and I met she had accosted me hiding behind the sand dune crying profusely on a Friday night. I was tucked away in a darkened corner hence did not notice my presence until she nearly stepped on me. Omoefa shouted out in fright jumping back “Blood of Jesus” seeing me clearly her initial fright swiftly morphed into anger. She rounded up in anger asking who I was and my purpose for lurking in the darkness, all the while getting ready to smash her upturned fist in my face. Tears still running down my face intermittently casting furtive glances towards the main gate i had escaped from, she must have realized the extent of my disconcert especially at the sight of my torn clothes as I held tightly to cover my half exposed breasts. Her anger turned to concern, as she asked me what had occurred abandoning all her initial resolve and hostility.  

When I arrived Paradise Island I was still naïve hence was oblivious to what the girls actually did until much later. I only started to enjoy myself after I met Obiri, a girl who lived in a shack next to our compound. She was my age although looked and acted older, that girl was a real tomboy a fire cracker. I often wondered how she came to be living on their own in the ghetto later after becoming firm friends, she confided in me that she ran away from home hiding under a lorry ferrying plantains to Lagos.

She was labelled a witch by a man they called ‘Prophet Zephaniah’ in her village, Prophet’s minions tortured then forced her to drink a concoction made out of water droplets drained from a dead body, declaring the spirit of the dead will compel her into a confession of her deeds even against her will. It seemed one of the strongest demons dwelt in her dark heart as she failed to confess, repeatedly maintaining her innocence. This provoked Prophet’s holy anger as he instructed assistants to hold her down, mouth forced open using his holy staff and concoction poured down her throat. Ensuing stomach cramps triumphant validation for prophet Zephaniah.

She had been accused initially by her father of deploying the powers of witchcraft that strong demonic spirit to drain his destiny causing an inability to feed her 8 siblings, he was a subsistent farmer. Her ropes had been untied in the dead of the night by her mother, who urged her to run away or be killed. Rescuing her mother and siblings from her father’s clutches and giving them a better life has been her motivation for hustling. I will make it in Paradise Island one day you watch and see if I don’t she often said with strong conviction and seriousness.      

Aunty had sent me to buy some Panadol at baba Oyibo’s chemist not very far from our compound. On my way back, one of the boys who hang around our street accosted me snatching Auntie’s change off my hand. I cried out begging him to give me back the money but he laughed taunting me until Obiri walked towards us and faced him. Looking on steadily no expression on her face bellying her true intentions she asked him to return my money, but he didn’t pay her any heed neither did I to be fair. Request repeated again this time firmly resolute as calm as you please, or he would get a beating. He finally paid attention to the irritant quickly surveying her small frame incredulously, unbelieving of the sheer impudence from this tiny runt as he laughed gleefully. Truly Obiri like me was shorter than the boy, by this time his friends had sauntered closer cheering urging him on.

All of a sudden she lunged forward grabbing his neck like a man and raining punches, open mouthed map of disbelief displayed all over my face at the sight “See this small ‘Pelenge’ girl fighting a boy. The fight seemed reminiscent of David and Goliath bored children had begun watching and clapping as the impromptu fight progressed. She landed a quick succession of punches then another slap Ha it’s a miracle!! I stopped counting after nine punches with interjecting slaps, a cut on his thick black lips blood spurted trailing down his jaw line. He was riled seriously angry now, yellow rimmed eyeballs bulging in naked resentment as he wiped excess blood with the hem of his oversize 2pac long sleeve tee shirt, he began pulling up his sleeves. It has gotten much personal no more a random past time but saving face that male ego has to be redeemed forthwith. He deliberately rushed towards Obiri swinging wildly right hand busy, as he made to grab her with his left hand we all gasped in fright but she darted back evading his latest swing, then moved in crouching like Malaika the great wrestler in our village. She grabbed his legs in a seemingly coordinated motion and shoved him backwards. He landed hard on his buttocks the audible grunt of pain sounding like a pig’s grunt. The tides had swiftly turned at this stage everyone turning the boos earlier directed towards the small girl into cheers the now vanquished fighter lying on the ground, smarting from defeat. I watched her beat him back to the ground, even after he unsuccessfully tried to get back up until an old woman drove the crowd away with a long broom.  Caught up in the excitement I had forgotten about my dilemma until I felt my cloth tugged from the back i turned around to see her still looking disheveled from the fight and sporting a small bump on her right cheekbone, without a word she shoved the crumpled change in my palm abruptly walking away.

To Be Continued……………………………

Written By Bunmi olaniyan 

Read Part 1 HERE



There are questions, oh yes, there are questions that must be asked, and yes I speak for myself, and that is why I write by myself, but I want you to read, and maybe, just maybe you might have the same questions going through your mind.

The nobility, not mobility oh, sorry Mr. mobility I had to clarify that, now where was I, oh yes, the nobility of the cause to bring back the kidnapped Chibok Girls is quite laudable, and admirable, and oh well you get the point, and while there have been demands and cries and appeals and so on, the fact still remains that the girls have not been brought back, and more have been taken, although we have been made to believe, or rather an attempt to convince everyone that no recent kidnaps have been carried out, we know better don’t we?

Anyway, back to the main reason I decided to postpone my pancake breakfast to put these words on virtual paper. For a while now, there have been reports, reports of girls escaping from the clutches of their captors, and I don’t mean 1 or 2, am talking about 40 and most recently 63 girls have escaped, now I rejoiced when I read the news, at least even if those we are asking to bring them back have foot dragged for over 80days, the girls have carried out daring escapes, and have come up, and we give God all the glory, or you give glory to who or whatever it is you worship, well because last time I checked, there was still freedom of religion, or am I wrong?

Anyway, this morning I read on the wire, that 63 girls had escaped, and I immediately decided to scan through the popular social media sites to authenticate the information, but to my surprise, or maybe lack of it, I found no news about the returned girls, correct me if I am wrong, and I am pretty sure lots of people will correct me, but isn’t the return meant to be a good thing? If the return of some of the girls is a good thing, then shouldn’t there be so much noise, that scrolling through preferred social media sites would be so tedious a task, as to drain the batteries of our handheld devices, but alas, as I scrolled through, my battery life dropped from 100% to a mere 96%.

Requests have been made, does it really matter in what order the requests are granted? Or should the granting of the request not be the topmost priority? Whenever some individuals request for visas to visit other countries, and the requests are granted, don’t they rush to their various churches and give testimonies of how they had to walk through the valley of death to acquire said visas, and the story of triumph in the end? So why should the escape of 63 girls and more in the recent past, who have been in the hands of their abductors for over 80 days not be a cause for celebration, press conferences, twitter Hashtags, Facebook likes and even a reason to resurrect My-space, instead all I see are comments of doubt, all I see are comments blaming the government, of fueling a continued illusion, all I see is silence from hearts that should be filled with joy, and all I ask is this, should it be so?

I don’t intend for this write up to be lengthy, mainly because I hate cold pancakes, but in an much as it is right to make demands and keep the #BRINGBACKOURGIRLS campaign alive, wouldn’t it be swell to know that there are waiting arms, open, in the eventuality that they will return, albeit in some unconventional and unexpected manners?

Would it not be heartwarming to see the same energy used in making the demand, to also rejoice with such news, and splash it all over the internet and in the real world?

Would it not be nice to know that, there are plans on ground to ensure the escaped girls receive all the medical and psychological attention they require, after such a harrowing experience?

Yes, I know at this point most readers are itching to comment, and so gladly inform us that there are modalities in place, but they are being kept under wraps, but then I would reply, I am not asking to see the girls, I am not requesting to see their names, all I am asking is that, the same energy used to keep the hashtag alive, the same energy used in giving us updates about the insensitivity of the government and their callous approach to finding the girls and ending the carnage, should also be put into informing eager ears and the numerous disciples on the progress made with the returned girls.

I don’t think it’s too much to ask.

Well I think I have said enough for now, but before I go, I’ll say this, I am happy, some are coming home, I am happy they were able to escape, and eventually, they will be reunited with their families.

“For they who clamor

Silently Pray

For the Clamor to go unnoticed

So the clamor may continue

And the spotlight remains”

God Bless You, God Bless Me, God Bless The federal Republic Of Nigeria……. Wait that is still our name right?

Written By Arome Ameh (The Priest)



We stood in front of the newspaper stand,as solid
members of the free readers association of
Nigeria,we paid the vendor to normal fee,just to get
a glimpse of the days headlines and also the major
sport stories making their rounds.
I noticed him standing by the corner,reading the
newspaper in his hands very diligently, as if trying
to soak up each letter, he appeared totally oblivious
of our ensuing conversation.
A group of men had gotten into a heated argument
over a newspaper ad they had seen,which was
calling for unskilled workers, outside the country,
the conditions were easy to meet, the ad even
offered to train the migrants and pay their way.
In fairy tale land,such a lucrative offer would be
seen as normal, or rather your average everyday
happy ending,but in the real world, one would have
to know that there is a catch, because why would
someone or a company for that matter,established
for the sole purpose of profit and wealth generation
for the founders, invest so much in unskilled labor.
I always turned the page on such ads, but the men
arguing beside me seemed taken by what they saw,
and who would blame them, with the downward
spiral of the local and global economy, its not odd to
see people falling for all sorts of things they read or
They openly discussed how they wanted to make
preparations to send in applications, and one of
them went ahead and put a call across to the
advertiser, from the look on the callers face, the
information he received was like a dream come
true, and he was immediately hooked.
Their conversation ensued and with every point
they raised, they got more and more excited, the
men began dreaming of a better life, and were
deliriously excited by the prospect of leaving
Nigerian shores, well their day dream was
interrupted by the lone man I had talked about
earlier, no one had noticed him move closer in the
heat of the discussion.
He dropped the paper in his hand, politely took
the paper from one of the men discussing, and slowly
looked over the ad, smiled, returned the paper, and
gently said “don’t even try it”, turned and started to
walk away.
Everyone stood silent, watching him walk away,
until I asked why; forgive me, but I just had to know why
a man wouldn’t make such a comment if he wasn’t
privy to some form of information, he turned around and
smiled, then walked back to me, and said “why
not take my advice”, he then turned towards the
men and said, “who out of all of you, would pay a
monkey to drive your car”?
At this point,everyone was silent, he smiled again
and said “I didn’t think any of you would, so you
should all know that the ad you see is nothing but a
scam”, and immediately he said that, some of the
men replied back saying he was just a kill joy, and
was trying to discourage them so he could have all
the opportunities to himself, this didn’t sit well with
our mystery man, a slight frown formed on his face,
and that was when he decided to speak.
“Like you I always hoped for greener pastures, honey
flowing from taps, a fat wallet and a place where
electricity never went off, I won’t judge you for
wanting all those things, you are human, and its
natural to want comfort, but on the other hand,
some humans take advantage of our desires and
decide to use it against us, humans are dangerously
callous and cruel, especially when they have the
opportunity to benefit immensely from it.
About 2 years ago, I was searching desperately for
employment, I had come to Lagos hoping to find a
job, nothing too fancy, just a job that ensured I got
paid and enabled me feed myself and pay my rent,
and also give me the financial freedom to take care
of those I left behind.
Imagine my pleasure when I came across the ad, it
was like a prayer answered, it felt like cold water
running down my back on a hot day, I called,just as
you did, I was given all the details, I met with them,
they were nice and very sympathetic,they sorted all
my travel arrangements, got me a new
passport,and they even gave me some money to
travel back home and break the “good news” to my
parents, they held my new passport as bait, this
ensured I was coming back.
I sure did come back, and after a few days I was on
a flight to the new world, to start my new job on a
so called oil rig, when we arrived, we were taken to
a house, I say we because we were 5 Nigerians,3
Ghanaians and 1 Kenyan, we all met at the airport.
When we arrived at the home, we met some other
men there, they were not as friendly and as patient
as the others back home, we sat for hours waiting
for what we didn’t know, and it was getting quite
hot, after an endless wait, a woman came in, and
asked us to submit our passports, according to her
it was for safe keeping, and since they had
collected my passport before and returned it to me,
I didn’t see anything wrong with it,but that was the
beginning of my nightmare.
A few hours later, a large truck pulled up to the
house, some scary looking men walked in, the
asked us to unpack our bags and take only the
essentials, at that point I was getting worried,
suddenly we were made to fall into a single line,and
we walked out towards the truck, it was dark, but I
could see other men and they had guns, at this
point I was really really worried, we got to the truck
and one after the other, we got stamped on the
neck, it was like being branded, a little pain and you
got shoved into the truck.
We were shoved into the truck, they locked it from
the outside, and suddenly I felt the truck moving, I
don’t know how long the journey took, but it was a
long time,maybe a couple of days at most, we only
stopped when they wanted to feed us, which was
always bread and a can of coke and little water, and
they gave us a few minutes to relieve ourselves, it
was horrible in the truck, it was stuffy and a lot of
the other men had motion sickness, they had
running tummies, and threw up, the stench was
mind blowing.
We eventually got to a town, I was handed over to
another man, who put me in the back of another
truck, we eventually got to his home, which was a
farm, there I realized I had actually been brought to
work as a farm hand, I asked him for my passport
and he laughed and told me to stop asking stupid
questions, he showed me to a stall, where I would
I met 2 others there, a man and a woman, they had
been there for a couple of months, that night the
farm owner called me up to the main house, he gave
me an envelop, I thought to myself, finally I have my
passport back, but to my horror it contained
addresses and phone numbers of my family
members, and also pictures which showed I had
been followed.
The envelope also contained an invoice, which
showed how much had been spent to get me there,
and how long I would have to work to repay my debt
and get my documents back, the owner went
further to let me know in very clear terms what
would happen to my family if I tried to escape.
I went back to the stall,confused,surprised,afraid
and in shock, but slowly the reality dawned on me,I
was now a slave.
It was difficult to adjust, I always tried to figure out
a way to escape, but it was never possible, simply
because I didn’t even know where I was,I didn’t
speak the language, I was made to cut grass,plant,
feed animals,clean up after them,things I would
never do in Nigeria, even if I got paid, and here I
was doing it for free.
We were fed once a day, except on Saturdays, we
got chicken legs in our meal, and every other
week,one or two new “slaves” would arrive,I
wondered how this kept happening and no one ever
suspected, it was like a scene from “roots”, people
working on the plantation, the master and his staff
constantly keeping watch to ensure no one tried to
run away.
“It was a hopeless situation”
I remember one night, we were rushed out of the
stalls were we slept, into and underground
bunker,we were kept there for a whole day, it
reminded me of the truck that had brought me
there, we later learnt that some government
inspectors had been on a tour.
I spent months ,I was starved,I was beaten,beaten
some more,I was losing hope.
There was a fire outbreak on the farm,in the
confessions, a lot of us escaped, we parted ways
when we got into town,I roamed around for a few
days until I was picked up by the police,I told them
all that had happened to me, but I was unable to
locate the farm, I was detained for a couple more
days, until I was eventually deported back to Nigeria

“It felt wonderful being deported”

It was a relief coming back home, but there was
also shame and fear,I stayed back in Lagos for a
few months after that, trying on menial jobs just to
raise some cash, but mostly out of fear,these men
still had my passport,they had vital info on me,info I
was stupid enough to provide.
I tried to locate the office I went to after I spoke with
them on the phone, but they had since left that
building, I was afraid to report to the police, because I
simply didn’t know what would happen to my family.
The fire provided my escape,I was trafficked,I was
caught in a trap like a rat,I was sold,I was a
It happens,there are thousands of Nigerians and
other nationalities out there who are suffering the
same fate, and if after hearing this, you still decide to go on with it, I bid you God speed.

He dropped the paper down neatly, and limped away.

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