We were sitting with my wife, waiting to eat before I would go and start looking after my animals. They came and surrounded our village, gathered us all, and asked our head if we were part of this village. The bulama said, “Yes, we are members of the community; some of us are farmers, and some are animal rearers.” They said, “We still don’t agree,” and then they took all of us to their boss. They brought us out of our house forcefully, separating men and women, and asked us several questions, like “Do you know any Boko Haram members?” and “When Boko Haram captured Chibok girls, did they pass through your village with them?” We said, “No, they didn’t follow this way.” We told them, “We don’t know anything; we are poor people.” Then they took us to their boss, who was standing somewhere within our village.
They came with 40 vehicles, but I don’t know the exact number of soldiers they came with. They took 42 of us to Dalwa, tied us with a rope, and started beating us. They cut my ear; the CJTF cut our ears with knives — five of us. From there, they took us to Giwa Barracks in Maiduguri; we stayed for one week. Then they brought us out and asked us, “Are you Boko Haram?” We told them, “We are not Boko Haram; we are poor people, farmers, and animal rearers.” After answering their questions, they told me to leave, and I heard some soldiers saying, “This is a villager, but look at what they did to him.”
They tied us up from morning till evening, then put us in their vehicles and took us to the airport, put us in a big airplane, and transported us to Niger state. We reached there during Isha prayer time; then they put us in cells, with four people in each cell.
In my cell, I was together with my friend Dahiru and two other people from Maiduguri. Dahiru died from thirst; he died in my presence after he had been asking for water. Thirty-seven people died for the same reason (lack of water). Three died before we went to Niger; they died at Giwa Barracks due to torture. The food they gave us was not enough, but we needed water more than food. Our skin changed colour due to a lack of bathing and dirt. The cell was dark and cold, and we were only wearing short trousers; we were disturbed so often by ticks that they didn’t even allow us to sleep at night. It rained heavily there.
Then the Red Cross came. They brought us carpets and provided each block with tap water. We were given two buckets and two-litre cans to fetch water and keep it in our cells. Some got sick due to the long time without water, and when they drank water, their bodies would start malfunctioning. Some died. Gradually, our food quantity was increased by the Red Cross.
I don’t know the name of the prison they kept us in, but we call it Niger Minau; I don’t know the name of the barracks. Some committee members came and told us that, by God’s grace, those of us who were not guilty would be released; they were not soldiers; they were wearing personal clothing. Then they sent us to court, checked some documents, and asked me what my mother’s name was. I told them, and I was declared not guilty. We stayed in Niger for 11 years. After I was declared not guilty, I stayed for six more years. Then the commander came, looking for people who came in 2014, and separated us from others. He asked for our numbers, and I told him mine was 5; he said it was correct. He asked all of us for our numbers, then told us to calm down because some people had been transferred to Gombe. He assured us that we would be taken too. Four hundred of us were later taken to Gombe; he told us we would stay in Gombe for nine months in Malam Sidi. Sometimes we would play football, and sometimes we would watch films. Then we were brought to Maiduguri, to Umaru Shehu Hospital, as free people.
Our relatives came and took us from there, and that is when I got the information that my father and my wife were dead. When we were captured, my wife was pregnant, and she gave birth to a dead child because of the shock and stress. She later died. For now, my only remaining relatives are my mother and our elder brother. He brought us to his place, and he is the one taking our responsibility. We have no home, nothing. When we were in our village, I had 30 cows and goats, some millets, and a farm, and now we have nothing. When I got married, I paid ₦100,000, and she’s dead now; her name is Fatime Inneru. And now getting married is not easy; it will cost almost a million.
What we need now is help to become independent. We don’t need to beg. But now, from clothing to food, we only depend on someone to get it. We came back just four months ago; when we came, many people shed tears. We want to be self-reliant; we want to take care of ourselves.
We stayed for one week in Giwa Barracks and stayed for 11 years in Niger, and did nine months in Gombe. When we were in Niger, even to ease yourself, you had to seek permission, but now we can do whatever we want freely.
What we suffered the most in Niger was the lack of water. We could go for four days without getting water. They gave us tea in a small cup every day; sometimes they gave us two small cups of tea. We would drink half first and then drink the other half later in the morning. That is the time we suffered the most; that is when our people died. I could not even stand on my feet. The guy who was helping me is in Gombe now; they will be the next batch that will be released.
When we were in Niger, I saw some of our people before they died, but not all, because our cells are in blocks, and it’s a story building. I could see the block that was below our own; that’s how I got to see them. And sometimes, when they took people to the upper floor, they passed our block; that’s how we got to see some of them. And sometimes, they used to come and ask me, “Do you know this person?”
Among the 42 of us that were captured, only five of us are remaining; the rest are dead. I saw six dead bodies among those that we were captured together, but for the rest, we just heard their cellmate saying, “So-and-so person is dead.” The five of us who were still alive were eventually kept in the same cell, and among us, only three were released. The remaining two told us that when we get back home, we should please tell their people about their situation. Their names are Isa Usman and Maina Musa; they are older than me. The wife of one of them is in Dala; she came here and asked me where her husband was. I told her he’s alive, but he’s still in Niger. And the other one’s wife has married another person.
I am currently suffering from heart pain; when I inhale, I sometimes find it hard to breathe. I sometimes find it hard to eat. This is my major problem, and my other problem is the lack of self-dependence.
When we were about to leave Niger, everything was becoming enough; it had been standardised by the Red Cross, and I got some treatment when I was in Gombe. Currently, if I’m asked where Niger is, I don’t know because the views were blocked when they transported us.
I was taken to Niger with my friends, and they are all dead. We are now gradually getting friends, and sometimes we feel shy to be amongst people, to mingle with people.
We have nothing.
As narrated by: Mohammad Garba (Maiduguri, Nigeria).
This snippet is published as part of a series, The Day Boko Haram Attacked.
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