Some of the young girls I’ve seen around here are 16 years old, 15 years old. Small small girls.

They fed me and other captives with good food, which was stolen from people's shops.

Sometimes editors rejected my reports, saying they were “too risky” or “too political.” But I found ways.

My shop was destroyed, my goods were scattered, and all the money I had worked so hard to save was gone.

I remember leaving the akara still frying in the oil. I didn’t carry anything, not even my money.

I would have sold any property I owned, but Boko Haram destroyed the house I inherited from my father in our village.

Before the insurgency, I was a skilled farmer, providing for my family. Now, I'm unable to work, and my family struggles to make ends meet.

It was difficult at first, balancing on one leg and trying to sew, but I refused to give up.

It was during our exam period, and the disruption made it nearly impossible for many of us to concentrate or even find a safe space to study.

Studying under such conditions was nearly impossible. It was difficult to read with a clear mind or concentrate.

If we all left, what hope would remain for the young people who dreamed of becoming doctors, teachers, nurses, or engineers?

It started suddenly with gunshots and chaos. Children screamed, teachers scattered, and everyone ran for their lives.

They wanted us to abandon our way of life and adopt their twisted version of Islam. But we knew that wasn't the way of our people.

I don't know how I'll be able to pay my next rent. All my businesses have been stuck due to Boko Haram.

When we came back, I couldn't even stand up on my feet; people had to hold me before I went to the toilet.