Sometimes, as a journalist, you work on depressing stories that make you want to throw your laptop, tablet, or any other writing material into the lagoon and find another profession. This is one of them.
You remember Musa Usman Abba? The young National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) member whose face flooded our timelines weeks ago? The one we all prayed for, shared posts about, and contributed money to save from bandits? The one who was tortured in video clips released by his tattered and dirty-looking captors?
Well, I thought I would be writing a rescue story. We thought we were the hands to pull a beloved son back from the jaws of beasts. We raised 10 million Naira and sent it to the kidnappers with hope in our hearts. Those men of the underworld collected every kobo of it.
And there has been no feedback ever since. The abductors simply vanished into thin air. No communication. No confirmation of life. Just the cold, heavy silence of a phone line that has now been switched off for weeks.
Family members, while appearing in an interview, believe what we are all too afraid to say: they believe he has been killed.
The final farewell prayer, Janaza, was held by the family on Friday in accordance with Islamic rites. They prayed Allah to forgive his sins and admit him to Al-Jannah (paradise). They did all the things Islam demands when a loved one departs.
I ask you: What kind of country are we becoming? This boy was just a young Nigerian, brimming with prospects and hope for a better life as a graduate. He was a fresh corps member serving his father’s land, probably dreaming of the day he would wear a suit to an office instead of khaki in a remote village.
And kidnappers looked at him and saw ten million naira and death. They didn’t see a son. They didn’t see a brother. They didn’t see a future. They saw cash and they saw death.
We keep asking ourselves: when did we get here? When did life become so cheap that even after paying the price, death still comes knocking? When did Nigerians start crowdfunding just to beg hardened criminals to return what does not belong to them?
Abba’s mother cannot sleep. His father cannot look at his photograph without breaking down. Siblings are walking around with heavy hearts craving for an opportunity to pounce on those beasts.
And the kidnappers? They are probably counting the money somewhere, laughing at how easy we made it for them.
But here is the question we must all sit with: What happens to the next Abba? The next corps member posted to a remote community? The next young Nigerian whose face will trend because we are trying to raise money to save him?
My heart bleeds for this family. My heart bleeds for this nation. We have become a people who pay ransom and still bury our children. We have become a people who do everything right and still end up with broken hearts.
How do you explain to a mother that she should stop waiting? That the son she carried for nine months, the son she sent to school, the son who put on that khaki with pride—that he is never coming home, even after she sold her last thread of hope to pay for his life?
Until we learn to value life more than money, until we decide that no Nigerian should have to beg to live, we will keep telling these sad stories. And honestly? I am tired of telling sad stories. Sad stories wreck the heart. Sad stories crush one’s psyche. Sad stories drain you. Sad stories reduce me to a sad man.
Security agencies must do more. Communities must be safer. And somehow, some way, we must find the courage to say enough is enough.
We cannot continue like this. How many more Abbas must die? How many more Janazas must we hold? We cannot continue this way while the government watches. We cannot keep begging criminals to be humane. We cannot keep burying our children.
This has to stop!
